


All of me (of scars and silences)

by Nina36



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Greg is kind of crazy about Molly, It's officially a Mollstrade fic too ..., John and Sherlock are in love. Like really in love in this one. :), John doesn't have a healing cock though, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of torture and rape, Minor Character Death, Mycroft might or might not have a relationship with Anthea in this one, Post His Last Vow, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock did have a sexual life when he was younger, Torture, almost sexy times for John and Sherlock, did I say angst with buckets of angst and PTSD?, it's finally completed yay!!!, mention of Sherlock and Victor in the past, non graphic torture, possible triggers, read the tags guys --- this could be triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 238,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3271544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later John thought that it had started with a flinch.<br/>That wasn’t entirely correct, though, was it? It had started long before that, while he was in London, pretending that he was turning a new leaf, that he was moving on, that breathing was easy (it wasn’t, that was the problem.) and he was making progresses with grief (he was still paralyzed by it, actually.)  – meanwhile Sherlock was somewhere else, getting rid of Moriarty’s web, dead for the world, for his friends and being tortured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Krullenbol2602](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krullenbol2602/gifts).



> It all started with this post on Tumblr: John doesn’t know about the scars, he doesn’t know about Magnussen harassing sherlock, he’s going to be so angry, he’s going to be so mad at himself for not seeing it, for not knowing oh my god this is so much worse than before by johnnlocked  
> It kinda snowballed, I'm writing, and it's getting longer than I expected.  
> Not betaed or brit picked, all mistakes are my own, I sincerely apologize for them:)

Later John thought that it had started with a flinch.

That wasn’t entirely correct, though, was it? It had started long before that, while he was in London, pretending that he was turning a new leaf, that he was moving on, that breathing was easy (it wasn’t, that was the problem.) and he was making progresses with grief (he was still paralyzed by it, actually.) – meanwhile Sherlock was somewhere else, getting rid of Moriarty’s web, dead for the world, for his friends and being _tortured._

The knowledge, the rage, the outrage, the tears – it would all come later. It would become new material for nightmares, for his breath catching in his throat, together with the new scars, with the new blood Sherlock had shed.

Looking back, though, he was sure it began on a crime scene. It started with a flinch on a crime scene. Moriarty or whoever had broadcasted that message was still at large, that didn’t mean that London criminals had stopped killing, stealing or _torturing_.

* * *

   The basement looked like something out of a horror movie, or from The Silence of the Lambs. Sherlock would have probably stared blankly at him, had John made the reference aloud. As it was, John had been too busy trying to suppress his gag reflex and not throw up on the crime scene as he took in the items, the blood, the stench, the folly of his surroundings.

   Bennett had been still at large; he had been an unknown entity, one that was still at the periphery of their lives – there was too much going on: Mary, Moriarty, the aftermath of what had happened at Appledore, the small miracle they had been granted when Sherlock had been called back and pardoned by the Queen herself with the clear request that the current threat to England needed to be dealt with. 

  Bennett – they knew the name because he loved to carve it on his victims’ bodies – was a ghost, a ghoul, not very different from all the psychopaths, murderers and criminals they had put behind bars. 

   Sherlock flinched when he saw the man’s wounds. Bennett alternated the gender of his victims; he kept them for three days, he tortured them, sexually abused them and eventually he bled them to death. Scotland Yard had not linked the first two victims because Bennett had hidden his signature, at first. He had chosen to be noticed, to be recognized after them, though. He fancied himself some kind of artist.

He was a creepy, bloodthirsty psychopath.

Five victims: three women, two men. They had nothing in common, no known associates, their bodies had been discarded in different parts of London, no one had seen or heard anything. The only thing the victims had in common were physical traits: they were all tall with dark, curly hair and blue eyes. 

John had not liked how the victim had Sherlock’s complexion and shared some physical features with him, but he had liked it even less when he noticed Sherlock’s subtle flinch upon seeing the victim’s body. John had seen blood on the pavement, not much of it though; even he could deduce that the poor bloke had been killed elsewhere and brought to that basement, where his body had been discarded on the pavement like old junk and, for a moment, it had all come crashing down on him, he had felt short of breath. He had wanted to go out of that basement and stand under the pouring rain outside, clench his fists and hope to feel _clean_ again. 

He had done none of those things. He had looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was crouching next to the victim’s body, his eyes fixed on the man’s marred back. John didn’t miss how Sherlock had paled, but it hadn’t stopped the consulting detective from deducing. Yet, John noticed how Sherlock’s mouth was pressed in a thin line, his hands on his knees. 

Sherlock was hesitant in touching the man’s body. He had been on dozens of crime scenes with Sherlock over the years, they had seen dead bodies, Sherlock conducted experiments on body parts constantly. People took it as a sign of disrespect, but they didn’t know that body was, for Sherlock, merely transport; he genuinely meant no disrespect with his attitude. John had noticed that Sherlock had somewhat mellowed since he had come back…but he had never seemed hesitant. Sherlock was still looking at the scars on the young man’s back. 

They were not going to be the worst of the damage that had been inflicted on the young man, if the previous victims were any indication. Lestrade had called them just a few hours before, he had given Sherlock the files on the previous victims, but Sherlock hadn’t even looked at them. He had been too relieved to leave the flat, to distract himself from the other issues to really study the files. And John had been too. He had been climbing the walls, forced to lay low by Moriarty’s video and he was frankly tired of hiding. 

An agent touched Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock flinched, again. He looked at the young, – very green, still not used to Sherlock’s methods –, agent and the other man took a step back. The message on Sherlock’s face was loud and clear: Do. Not. Touch. Me. 

“Sorry.” The agent said, leaving Sherlock alone.

Something wasn’t right, John could tell. Sherlock Holmes was a good actor, he had mastered control over his body, knew how to school his features, had learnt how to appear unfeeling, cold, detached. John himself had accused him, time and again, of being inhuman, a machine – that had been until he had almost bled to death in their sitting room after Mary had shot him. 

_Well, protecting someone, then. But why would he care? He’s Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?_

John ignored that recollection, he hated how it sprung up in his mind as a mockery of how, as usual, he had seen but had not observed. God, he could be such a blind idiot, sometimes! Thing was, he could see that there was something wrong with Sherlock. It was plain as day, at least for him. Sherlock seemed – lost, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body, with his surroundings, with the senseless violence inflicted on their still nameless victim. 

“Sherlock?” John called. 

Sherlock turned his head slowly toward him, his gaze unfocused for a moment, then he blinked his eyes and he was back. It was Sherlock again. He stood, tall and proud, larger than life, impeccable in his suit, tight white shirt and his Belstaff coat.

John breathed a little easier when Sherlock started to talk, until he noticed that he was moving differently; there was something almost mechanic in the way Sherlock carried himself in that basement, that day, in the way he studiously ignored the scars on the man’s body, focusing on other details. It started with a flinch – it only got worse from there.

* * *

 

    John didn’t feel guilty for not going home after they had finished discussing the case. Truth was John had forgotten that he didn’t live in Baker Street any more. It had completely escaped him, so when Sherlock had closed the files, and had gone to the kitchenette to resume one of his experiments, John had done what he had always done in such occasions: he had sat on his chair and read the paper while drinking tea. He had still been worried about Sherlock. But that wasn’t an excuse, he knew that. He had a house, far from Baker Street. He had a wife and a daughter on the way. 

He had a ring on his finger and he had vowed in front of God and men that he would honor, cherish and love – a woman who didn’t exist. It hit him that he hadn’t thought about going back to Mary because he had already felt like he was _home_. He blinked, looking around when he realized what time it was and that he had ignored the texts he had gotten. 

He had spent – how long, exactly?, pretending to read the paper, while actually sneaking glances at Sherlock. He thought that things had felt _entirely_ too familiar. How many times had he done the exact same thing? How many times had he met Sherlock’s gaze while trying to be subtle and not look at him? It used to embarrass him, back at the beginning, when he just…could not stop looking at Sherlock, even when he was furious, exasperated or angry. It didn’t embarrass him anymore. Looking at Sherlock, marveling at the man’s face, hands, voice was just a fact of life for John. One upon which he didn’t dwell on. He was just too bloody grateful to have him back in his life.

John read Mary’s texts. She was worried but understanding. She was just…so _bloody_ understanding and mysterious and John couldn’t trust her. He was trying to, God knew he was, because Sherlock had asked him, because he had almost died, he had killed Magnussen and had been sent away – all in order to protect Mary and their unborn child. The least he could do was to do as he asked him, to trust him. 

He was trying – but God, it was exhausting! It was a constant game of trying to guess whether Mary was being honest, truthful; it was a constant game of pretending on his part. He was tired. 

“Sherlock?” John said. 

He got up from his chair, and went into the kitchenette. He placed the mug in the sink, but Sherlock still didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge his presence. He rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, remembering only when the other man flinched what had happened on the crime scene. That was unusual. Sherlock had never shied away from contact with him. Ever. Not even when they had barely known each other.

“Sorry,” he said. He clenched his hand on his side and continued, “I didn’t want to startle you. It’s late, I’m going –” 

“Oh.” Sherlock said, “I thought you had already left.”

He gave him a tight smile and John ignored the tight ball of worry he felt in the pit of his stomach. There was something off about the way Sherlock was talking; he had been himself while talking about the case: full of life, brilliant and exhausting. He was distracted, now. His words sounded like a token effort to make him look and sound like his usual self.

“Are you all right, Sherlock?” John asked.

He knew that asking him that question was an exercise in futility. Sherlock was _always_ all right, there was never anything wrong with Sherlock. And as it always happened, Sherlock Holmes surprised him; he gave him a small, tight smile and said in a soft voice, “I just need a shower.” 

He got up, but John forgot to move to make room for him. Truth was that John couldn’t move, the feeling of something wrong with Sherlock had reached a new height; he felt his heart in his throat for a moment while he considered that Sherlock Holmes did not take showers; Sherlock enjoyed baths, long baths in warm water and unless there was some brunette woman dressed in his shirt, he didn’t even make a mess of the bathroom. He knew those things because they had lived together and flat mates ended up knowing all kind of things about each other. 

He blinked, realizing that Sherlock hadn’t moved either, he was looking at him and John couldn’t honestly tell what he was thinking. All he knew was that his back was against the sink and Sherlock was crowding his space.  There had been times, _before…_ where those little incidents almost scared him, because time seemed to slow down when it happened, there was a kind of tension he recognized but, he had thought, Sherlock didn’t. It had been enough, for him, though; what lied just beneath the surface was there, untouched, and John could pretend and suppress.

He wasn’t scared any more. There had been scarier things since then. There had been Sherlock falling, there had been blood – so much blood, Sherlock’s, on the pavement outside St. Barts, on his fingers, on Sherlock’s white shirt, on Magnussen’s floor, on his coat. There had been the noise of Sherlock’s heart failing, twice. There had been a cold morning in a Tarmac where all the silences, the little moments, the anger and the love had merged into a single handshake and John had been surprised, vaguely, maybe because he had felt numb, when he hadn’t limped, when he had actually been able to breathe when Sherlock’s airplane had taken off. 

No, being so close to Sherlock didn’t scare him particularly. It broke his heart, it made him want to hit things, but – it was also _good_ …because Sherlock was there, he was real, warm and John wished, _God,_ he wished they were other kind of men, he wished things were different, because he wanted to kiss Sherlock. It wasn’t anything new, not really – but the strength of his yearning and the fact that, for a moment, Sherlock looked at him as if he wanted to kiss him as well, was new and exhilarating. 

John swallowed and licked his lips. Sherlock was still looking at him, still sharing breathing space with him, close – so close that he could feel the warmth of the man's body even through his clothes, so close that he had no troubles seeing something naked in the man’s eyes, something that was making the space between them grow thinner and thinner, sidestepping the silences and the choices they had made. 

He was sure, positive, that Sherlock was going to kiss him, because the desire in his friend’s eyes was unmistakable, it was in each breath they were both taking, in how neither of them dared to move. Sherlock blinked and John stifled a sigh. The look in Sherlock’s eyes was now devoid of that naked want that had been there only seconds (eternities) before.

“Good night, John.” Sherlock whispered.

John wanted to grab him. He really did. He wanted to grab fistfuls of Sherlock’s shirt, wanted to breathe his air again, but Sherlock’s whisper stopped him. There was something – vulnerable, something that renewed that feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, in Sherlock’s voice. 

“I can – ” John started. 

Sherlock shook his head, he saw him clenching his jaw minutely, “No.” Sherlock said, “Go home to your _wife.”_

John didn’t say anything and Sherlock left the room, without looking at him. There was still something mechanic in the way he carried himself and moved. He looked down at the table and realized that there was nothing in the petri-dish on which Sherlock had supposedly been working on for hours. 

Everything in him was screaming to stay there, to _observe,_ not to let Sherlock out of his sight, despite Sherlock’s whispered words and his assurances that he was all right. Yet, he slowly went to the door straining to hear Sherlock. There hadn’t been any noise ever since he had heard the bathroom’s door close. _Before_ (his life was now divided into _before_ and _after_ Sherlock had flung himself from that bloody rooftop.) he might have wondered whether Sherlock was back on drugs. Now he wasn’t so sure, and it scared him to think about what else might be happening to him. 

Two, three steps and he would be outside the door – and he knew that Sherlock would focus on the five crime scenes, on the victims, on finding who, exactly, Bennett was. He closed the door and for a moment he couldn’t move a single muscle.

He honestly couldn’t imagine to go back to Mary, not that night, not when his skin was still tingling with how close Sherlock and he had been, with years of what ifs and close calls with death. In the end there wasn’t time to decide or think, not when he heard glass shattering in the flat. He opened the door and strode toward the bathroom, his vision sharp, his senses honed.

A small part of him thought that he was perhaps overreacting but he knew, deep down, that it was not the case, it rarely was with Sherlock Holmes. The door was not locked. Of course, why would it be? Sherlock lived alone. He didn’t get in the bathroom, though.

“Sherlock? Are you all right?” John asked. 

The water wasn’t running and John noticed that the light wasn’t on. Sherlock didn't reply to him and the feeling in the pit of John’s stomach lurched, making him swallow with fear.

“I’m coming in, Sherlock.” He said and he was oblivious of how hoarse his voice sounded. 

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was harsh, it was a command – it reminded John of that day. 

_Stay exactly where you are_. 

John closed his eyes for a moment, feeling almost dizzy. Life with Sherlock Holmes had always been a constant rollercoaster of danger, adrenaline, laughter, weird, warm domesticity and chaos – somewhere down the road it had also started to fucking rip his heart apart; simple words could steal his breath away and drive him half mad with grief. 

He tried to be rational, he tried to quiet the recollections, the fear – but truth was that he knew that tone of voice. He knew what it meant and he would not leave Sherlock alone, not again. 

“I don’t think so!" John said and he opened the door. 

The first thing he noticed was that the room wasn’t really dark; a soft light came from Sherlock’s room, so he could see – and he wished he didn’t. For a moment he wondered if that was how Sherlock felt like: seeing everything at once, his mind connecting the dots, forming a clear picture, one he hated. For a moment the bathroom in Baker Street was a crime scene: Sherlock’s jacket and shirt were on the floor, which was surprising in and on itself, Sherlock’s clothes were his coat of armour, to see them scattered on the floor was surprising, upsetting. 

The mirror on the wall was shattered. Correction: _Sherlock_ had shattered the mirror on the wall. Mirrors didn’t just shatter on their own (people who smashed their fists in mirrors did), mirrors didn’t bleed (then why there were drops and trails of still fresh blood on it?), mirrors were objects.

There was blood on the floor, trailing down from Sherlock’s closed fist. Sherlock was bleeding – and John was so very tired of seeing Sherlock’s blood. The floor (the pavement, the clothes) was not the place for blood. He felt irrational, his level-headiness replaced by something else, more visceral, primeval and scary. He saw the scars and not just the bullet one on Sherlock’s chest.

John knew Sherlock’s bullet scar; he had pressed on the damn wound when he had been shot, even though there wasn’t an exit wound; the blood had oozed from the wound and John had just pressed – the warmth of Sherlock’s blood tearing through the feeling of unreality he had been feeling. He knew Sherlock’s skin – not intimately, of course – he knew its softness, he had set dislocated shoulders, he had cleaned up superficial wounds. 

There were scars on Sherlock’s back. Well, that wasn’t an apt description, Sherlock would be disappointed with his lack of detail – he was on the verge of hysteria, part of him noticed – but then again, Sherlock was not looking at him, he was looking at the broken mirror, he was bleeding all over the floor and his back looked like someone had used it to check whether knives, cigarettes and whips still worked. 

They did. 

“Jesus…what have you done?” He heard himself say. He moved and took Sherlock's hand in his, examining it under that weak light, even though it was like watching himself from the outside…he couldn't feel a bloody thing! 

_Dissociation? Really, John?_ Sherlock’s voice said in the back of his head, and John could _hear_ the eye roll. Well, since the idiot was bleeding for no logical reason, he had no leg to stand on! Sherlock looked at him and John saw, even with the weak light coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, that it was taking him some effort to focus his gaze; he blinked, and then said, “Nothing. Why are you still here?”

“I heard the glass shattering – damn, these cuts will need stitches!” John replied. 

Sherlock’s hand in his was trembling with aftershocks; it was cold and John was breathing through his nose, letting his training do its thing. 

“Go home, it’s nothing, I’ll –” Sherlock started but closed his mouth when John interrupted him with a sharp: “Shut up!”

With a little maneuvering, they moved to the kitchenette; John studiously ignored Sherlock’s naked back and the scar on his chest; he focused on the man’s hand. He had a first aid kit – one very much furnished – still in the kitchen.

“Don’t move!” He said to Sherlock, while he took the kit.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, avoiding his gaze. Sherlock Holmes was a drama queen; that was something he had discovered about the man approximately ten minutes after he had set foot in Baker Street for the first time. Sherlock Holmes could be reckless, he had a high pain endurance threshold (how much had he bleed from his back? Had he screamed? How much pain had he felt?) but, as long as John had known him, he had never purposely attempted to hurt himself for no reason; body was transport – but even Sherlock knew that a hurt body made for rubbish transport…what the hell had he been thinking?

“John,” Sherlock said when he started cleaning his wounds, “I’m fine. There’s no need to…” he trailed when he finally looked at him. 

John knew he was perhaps supposed to say something, to ask questions, to remind Sherlock that he had hurt his dominant hand and that he was short out of luck if he thought he was going to use it for the next few days. He wanted to tell him that he would stitch him up without giving him anything for the pain and that he was _pissed._ Would he ever stop trying to martyr himself? He could not lose him. He just couldn’t. 

“You won’t. I wasn’t trying to kill myself.” Sherlock said and John blinked at the man’s voice, as realization hit him that he had said the last thing aloud.

“No. Been there, done that…right?” John said and he was surprised by the harshness of his tone. 

He had forgiven Sherlock…he really had. Unlike with Mary, forgiving Sherlock had been remarkably easy for him; it scared John to think that there was nothing he would not do for Sherlock. Forgiving him for the black hole he had fallen into when Sherlock had staged his death was nothing – that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt. 

Sherlock was looking at him; if he was feeling pain he wasn’t showing it, there was weariness in his eyes and on his face. Sherlock looked exhausted, older somehow. Sherlock’s hand was still in his and John almost smiled for a moment at the familiarity of the scene; except that there was something clawing and roaring inside of him with the knowledge that nothing in that scene was really familiar – and that not even half a hour before they had been in the exact same spot and he had been sure Sherlock would kiss him, but now he was using tweezers to pluck out glass fragments from Sherlock’s hand and he had seen the scars on Sherlock’s back and he had no idea about how to go back to his life after that. 

“I’m not going to ask what happened.” John said after a moment.

“Good. Because I’m not volunteering information.” Sherlock replied, his tone was but a pale imitation of his usual scathing one.

John nodded and silence fell in the room, uncomfortable and thick with unsaid words. Sherlock didn’t as much as utter a sound while John stitched the deep gashes in his hand; he didn’t ask for pain killers and didn’t complain – John wondered whether he had retreated back to his mind palace; he wondered whether he had done the same when he had been _tortured._

“When did it happen?” John asked suddenly, his voice steady, despite the lump of sudden anger in his throat. 

Sherlock frowned in confusion; John noticed the beads of perspiration on his forehead and in the hollow of his neck. He was hurting – but wasn’t asking for pain killers, he wasn’t asking him to stop. Jesus…treating wounds wasn’t supposed to make him feel sick to his stomach, but it did. Sherlock caught the slight trembling of his fingers, or maybe he deduced it – or he had become a mind reader, John didn’t know, didn’t care, but felt relieved when Sherlock said, “It doesn’t hurt – you stitching me up, that is.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” John said, but he felt like he could breathe more easily. 

“You need to be more specific, John.” Sherlock replied, a hint of mocking in his voice. 

Good. He could deal with Sherlock when he was like that. Arsehole Sherlock was easy to read and deal with for him; it was familiar and comforting.

“The scars on your back.” John specified. He could be an arsehole too if Sherlock wanted to play that way.

“Oh…” Sherlock said, “those? It’s ancient history!” 

He heard the implicit: _and none of your bloody business_ loud and clear, but he chose to ignore it, because it was _his_ business! Sherlock was…what? What was Sherlock? His colleague? Yes. They solved crimes together and he blogged about them – they were partners, and partners were supposed to know if half of the partnership had been tortured. Sherlock and he were friends – he was his best friend, the only real friend he had ever had; not the kind you went to pubs with, but the kind who…walked through the fire for you, killed and protected and broke bones and hearts… Sherlock was _his_.

And maybe it was unfair of him, because he had a wife and a child on the way, because Sherlock deserved more than that, but it didn’t change what he felt or how he felt. 

“What happened, Sherlock?” John asked again. 

Sherlock actually rolled his eyes, he was getting angry, now. Well – he already was angry, Sherlock bloody Holmes would have to get in line! “You are a doctor, you went to war, make an educated guess!” Sherlock spat.

John couldn’t move for a moment. Knowing something and having it confirmed in a roundabout way were two different things. Sherlock’s face was blank – and John wondered how he could have missed those scars – he tried to go back to Sherlock’s stay in the hospital; why hadn’t he noticed a thing? The answer was simple and it broke John’s heart: Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to know. 

“You were tortured.” John stated.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but John knew how he hated to repeat himself. He finished stitching the gashes on Sherlock’s hand and dressed his wounds with a gauze and the man left the kitchenette immediately after, without saying a word. 

He looked down at his hands, dirty with Sherlock’s blood and for a moment he wondered whether Sherlock had felt full of rage and the only outlet for it had been a mirror. He could sympathise in that case. He wondered whether Baker Street was big enough to fit all the rage that he could feel simmering under his skin. 

He was furious – he wanted to know who had done that to Sherlock, who had thought that marring the man’s skin was something they could get away with. He wanted to know why. He wanted to go to Sherlock, take his face in his hands and kiss him, claim him. He wanted to breathe without having to stifle a sob. He wanted Sherlock to talk – because bad things happened when Sherlock didn’t talk, when he lived by his “alone protects me” horseshit.

He turned and walked out of the kitchenette, leaving behind the mess they had made and followed Sherlock’s trail. Sherlock had closed the door and John felt a weird sense of déjà vu. The last time he had been outside that door Janine had come out of it, wearing Sherlock’s shirt, acting as if she belonged there – he shook his head; they were alone in the flat, now…and Sherlock had scars all over his back and had smashed his fist against a mirror while in the dark and John was worried. He was afraid.

He called Sherlock’s name and was considering kicking the door open when Sherlock opened the door; he was wearing one of his robes, he was still pale, but he seemed more in control of himself.

“Mary has texted you twice while you were stitching my wound, she has also texted me. You should…”

“I’m not going anywhere.” John said. 

Sherlock tilted his head on a side, studying him for a moment…and John wondered what he was seeing exactly. Did he see that the only thing John could feel in that moment was rage and the blood on his hands? Could Sherlock see that he needed to know?

“You are overreacting, John.” Sherlock said after a moment.

“Said by the man who smashed his fist against a mirror?" John replied and despite himself he was smiling. How did Sherlock do that? How could he defuse or cause his anger with mere words? Sherlock didn’t reply to him. 

“You really are, I can promise you.” He said. And John’s heart broke a little knowing that Sherlock meant his words. He really thought that he was overreacting, that having a constellation of scars on his back (and he wondered for a moment about the rest of his body – about the internal damage as well and had to stop before he ended up hyperventilating) was not a big deal. 

John shook his head, feeling stupid. He tried to reason with himself that Sherlock had a right to keep things to himself, that he had no right wanting to know, but all his rational arguments clashed with the image of Sherlock’s back, of the map of scars on his skin. 

“Is…” John started, a sudden realization hitting him. He cleared his throat, choosing his next words carefully. He looked at Sherlock when he said, “The kid – Bennett’s victim, today, he had scars on his back…”

“Oh, please –” Sherlock interrupted him, “I didn’t have a flashback!” Sherlock had spoken quickly, looking at him, and John shook his head, “I wasn’t implying that.” he said. 

He truly hadn’t meant to imply that. He had just wanted to ask if the scars on that kid’s back had upset him. 

“Don’t romanticize what happened to me. Don’t make me into some empathetic creature!” Sherlock said, his voice calm, the look in his eyes cold. 

Time was when John would have bought those words; he would have believed the image of himself Sherlock projected to everyone. Sherlock Holmes could be a cold, manipulative bastard. He could be cold and callous – but he was also very human, he could bleed and break and suffer like everybody else…and John had seen the changes in him, too clearly to take his projected image at face value any more. 

“I was captured, interrogated, rescued. End of story.” Sherlock said, breaking his train of thoughts. “Nothing romantic, dramatic or exceptional, John. Just – thugs doing their jobs.” 

“When?” John asked.

“What does it matter?” Sherlock said. 

He was losing his patience, he was getting defensive. John could shut up – really, he could. There were so many unspoken words between them that a few more wouldn’t make a lot of difference. He couldn’t though. Because Sherlock had been on his own for two years – and he had never asked, not once, what had happened to him; he had been too busy playing John Watson, future husband of Mary Morstan, to ask – he had been blind, deaf – but he wasn’t, not any more. “It matters to me.” John said. Sherlock pinned him with his gaze.

“I’m not playing this game with you, John.” he said eventually. 

“This is not a game!” John hissed. And it wasn’t. It was just the two of them, outside Sherlock’s room, avoiding subjects and staring at each other – like they had done for so long, except that John couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move; he could only feel Sherlock’s blood and the need to bash and smash and kill whoever had hurt him. 

“Is it not?” Sherlock said. “Fine!”

John knew that tone of voice, he knew that Sherlock would say something hurtful, because he was feeling threatened, because his mask had slipped and he had showed glimpses of himself. 

“It happened in Serbia, shortly before I came back. They wanted to know why I was there, I refused to answer. I think I must have antagonized one of them when I exposed his affair with one of the other guards. That’s where the floggings come from. They used the classics: cold, hot, water, fire, electricity, sleep deprivation. Had Mycroft not arrived I would have sustained massive internal hemorrhage due to blunt instruments, specifically a windpipe. As it were I had two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, my wounds were infected. I was also dehydrated and later given tetanus shots. It took two days for the fever to break, which postponed my return to London of a few days.” 

Sherlock had talked in a quiet, matter of fact tone, his eyes still boring into his; and John didn’t move, couldn’t move. He forced himself not to think to the night Sherlock had come back. He tried not to think about the fact that he had hit him, three times. Sherlock hadn’t showed any signs of discomfort, he remembered looking at him, at the way he had moved, larger than life, making everything suddenly brighter and sharper after two years of living in a desaturated world – and he had to force himself to breath. 

“Are you satisfied?” Sherlock asked. He was angry, now, and the lines on the sides of his mouth told John that he was also in pain.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John whispered. 

Sherlock let out a small laughter. It was humorless, sharp, like a slap on the face and it had that very effect on John; he recoiled, taking a step back. “I seem to remember you had other _things_ on your mind!” Sherlock said, “Besides, it hardly mattered then, it doesn’t matter now and it has no bearing with Bennett’s case.” 

“Oh, shut up!” John growled, shortening the distance between them, “Just shut up!” he whispered, his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, before kissing him. 

John had imagined kissing Sherlock through the years. Of course he had. He had imagined tasting his lips, had imagined their bodies pressed flush against each other, he had imagined Sherlock’s hands roaming on his body, he had gotten off on that, more than once, but what was happening, outside Sherlock’s room, was unlike anything he had imagined! He hadn’t foreseen his anger or Sherlock’s; he hadn’t imagined how he would seek entrance, licking Sherlock’s lips, cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands. He couldn’t have foreseen the moment Sherlock opened up to him, how his taste would make him dizzy with want, with _need._

He hadn’t imagined they would move and his back would be against a wall when Sherlock kissed him back, his body trapping him, his kisses scorching hot against his skin – until he stepped back.

“No.” Sherlock said. John looked at him, dazed.

Sherlock looked furious, now; he was clenching his injured hand and that was what shook him from his confusion, even before he mumbled an apology he didn’t even feel on his lips, let alone in his heart. He took Sherlock’s hand in his, to stop him from pulling the stitches, but Sherlock jerked the hand away. 

“Sherlock…” John said, but Sherlock didn’t listen to him, he didn’t think he had ever seen him so angry, certainly not at him. 

“I think you need to go home now.” Sherlock said, his voice didn’t leave room for any argument, least of all the one John had been silently debating with himself for hours: Baker Street was _home._

“Sherlock, I – ” John trailed.

He had apologized, sort of. But he didn’t think he had to, because kissing Sherlock hadn’t felt wrong 

“Please, John.” Sherlock said icily, without looking at him.

“I’m sorry…” John said. And he was sorry…he was sorry that Sherlock was so upset that he couldn’t even bear to look at him, even if he didn’t understand why.

Sherlock shook his head, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like an apology and disappeared in his room, locking the door that time. John stared at the closed door for a moment, without knowing what to do; his mobile phone vibrated, alerting him of another text. 

There was no sound coming from Sherlock’s room and no light, either. John wondered, for a moment, if Sherlock was behind that door, wondering what John would do next – he wondered what had just happened, why Sherlock had kissed him back and then reacted like _that._

As he left Baker Street, feeling tired and old, he wondered whether he had managed in ruining the most important thing in his life. He wondered how could he fix it up – he wondered whether whatever had happened had succeeded where so many had failed before: separating them. He wondered why Sherlock had apologized. He wondered why he had never acknowledged, not even to himself, how desperately in love with Sherlock Holmes he really was. 

* * *

 

 

 Before he met Sherlock Holmes John Watson didn’t believe in fate; he hadn’t believed in things written in the stars, fated meetings – he hadn’t particularly believed in coincidences either; his life had been too ordinary to make too much out of the fact that, according to one consultant detective, the universe was rarely so lazy as to allow coincidences.

But what were the odds of meeting an old colleague, one he hadn’t seen for years, shortly after returning from Afghanistan, while debating whether to look for a flat or sucking on the barrel of his gun?

What were the odds of said old friend being acquainted with one consulting detective looking for a flatmate? What were the odds of an instant connection between two frankly grumpy arseholes?

He had started to believe in fate after meeting Sherlock Holmes – and fate was a devious, cunning, backstabbing bitch. Fate could make you meet the most important person in your life, make you fall in love with him, knowing that he loved you back – and take him away from you, from one heartbeat to the next.

Alyce Bradford was sixteen years old, she was tall, with dark, long, curly hair, blue eyes; she wore Pink Floyd t-shirts and was a promising pianist; she lived with her parents, she owned a laptop, had posters on the walls of her room, didn’t have a tv, she had a stuffed lilac bear on her bed. He would find out all of those things about Alyce Bradford, after – after Sherlock saved her, after that bloody idiot decided to be selfless, to be a hero, to break his heart when he offered himself as a hostage for Bennett. And Bennett accepted. 

Before that, before Bennett’s car sprinted away and he held a traumatized teenager in his arms, while Lestrade and the other yarders moved, there had been a long day, a 30 hours long day. Before Alyce Bradford sobbed in his arms, still bleeding, there had been an awkward morning at St. Bart’s lab; John had been surprised when he had gotten Sherlock’s text, asking him to join him at the lab. Sherlock had looked calm, relaxed, his hand had still been bandaged, but he hadn’t required his assistance. 

It had been awkward; he had felt like throttling Sherlock or banging his head against a wall for a little while and if Sherlock had noticed – of course he had, he was bloody Sherlock Holmes, wasn’t he? – he hadn’t said a word. He had chatted with Molly, asked for her help, while pretending he was invisible. John had helped anyway; he had examined samples, read the autopsies reports on all previous victims and the forensic reports of all the crime scenes. 

After a while he had almost forgotten about the previous night and Sherlock had really relaxed. John had started to believe that they could get over what had happened the previous night; if he could forgive Sherlock for breaking his heart when he had staged his death, the consulting detective could pretend they hadn’t kissed the night before. It wasn’t in any way, shape or form healthy – but neither of them would win any contest as the most psychologically sane individual anyway. 

Two things had happened: Sherlock narrowed down Bennett’s hiding place to three possibilities and Lestrade called, alerting them of Alyce Bredford’s kidnapping. It had taken a while for John to realize one thing after Sherlock had come back, but while they were in the cab and Sherlock dutifully informed Lestrade of his findings, instead of plunging in head first into danger, he realized that it wasn’t the first time or even the second he had done so; of course Sherlock still loved the thrill of the chase, still thought police slowed them down, but the underground bomb had not been a fluke. Sherlock called for backup, now. Most of the times anyway.

He had smiled and Sherlock had noticed, in fact he had said, “What?” 

“Nothing – it’s just…you, calling the police, that’s all.” John had said. 

Sherlock had shrugged, he had looked ahead of him for a moment before saying, “I may be indestructible, John – but I am not infallible. I also try and learn from my mistakes.”

The silence that had fallen in the cab after Sherlock’s words had been heavy, John had pictured Sherlock, alone, making some mistake that had lead him to be tortured, to be hurt.

“We didn’t have backup when we went to see Magnussen.” John had said. 

He noticed the way Sherlock clenched his right hand almost imperceptibly and frowned. 

“As I said, I try and learn from my mistakes. We did have back up, though.” Sherlock said.

“Did we?” John had asked. 

“You weren’t searched when we arrived, were you?” Sherlock had asked. 

“Your brother.” John had said. Sherlock had shrugged his shoulders, without replying. “You didn’t steal his laptop, did you?” John had asked, smiling despite himself. 

“Why would he want to bring his laptop to our Christmas dinner?” Sherlock had replied as if it was obvious that Mycroft and he had been in cahoots since the beginning. 

“But…” John had meant to ask, “why did you kill him?” but he had already known the answer, both the one Sherlock would give him and the real one.

It had been crystal clear from the moment he had seen that video of Sherlock pulling him out from that bonfire. 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock had asked, sounded only mildly bored with their conversation. 

“Whose idea was it?” John had asked. 

“Does it matter? It doesn’t change the final outcome.” Sherlock had replied.

John had nodded. It didn’t matter, Magnussen was still dead, Sherlock had killed him and Mary and their daughter were safe. 

“Sherlock…” John had said, “about last night…”

He had stopped, suddenly aware of the tension in Sherlock’s body. He had looked at the cabby, who had looked much more interested in the road ahead of him and decided to talk. Sherlock could not run away from that cab. Neither could he – and they were stuck in the traffic.

“Don’t.” Sherlock had warned him. 

“Don’t you think we should –” John started, but Sherlock had stopped him saying, “I don’t. I didn’t need your pity last night and I don’t need it now!” 

Pity? Sherlock Holmes seriously believed that he had kissed him out of _pity?_ Five years of denying what everyone in their circle of acquaintances had always known or suspected, two years of a bottomless pit of grief and regrets and Sherlock had seriously thought that he had kissed him out of pity?

John had turned toward the man and had looked at him for a moment before asking, “What kind of man do you think I am?” 

Sherlock had looked surprised by his question, he had blinked his eyes and John had noticed the confusion on his face and heard it in his voice when he had asked, “I’m sorry?”

“What kind of man do you think I am?” John had repeated. 

“John, I don’t think this is the moment for this.” Sherlock had replied. 

“Oddly enough I don’t care!” John had spat. 

“You are a good man, John. The best I’ve ever known.” Sherlock had said and had sounded sincere, “perhaps you thought –” 

“All right, stop it, right now!” John had said, harsher than he had meant, “It was not pity! I wasn’t pitying you last night.” 

“You didn’t look at your face.” Sherlock had murmured.

“It was not pity, Sherlock.” John had repeated. He had drawn in a breath, looking around, he hadn’t looked at Sherlock while he had said, “Timing was not good, I’ll grant you that, but it was not out _of…pity,_ Christ, Sherlock, you really have no idea, haven’t you?” 

Sherlock had no idea of what he had been talking about, he had looked genuinely confused…and, for a moment, hopeful, like part of him had understood him, what he had meant with his words, but the other couldn’t quite believe it. 

“You…” Sherlock had started.

John had nodded his head, not trusting his voice. He had always been rubbish with words anyway. 

“You wanted to…?” Sherlock had continued. 

“For a very long time.” John had said.

“Oh…” Sherlock had said, blinking his eyes a couple of times, confusion and a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“ _Oh_ …” John had echoed. 

Sherlock had turned toward him, studying him for a moment and John had almost jumped in surprise when he had felt Sherlock’s gloved hand close around his. “Me too.” Sherlock had said after a moment and he had smiled. 

John had smiled as well. He had wanted to say more, he had wanted to kiss him again, to kiss him properly, without the anger, the mad urgency he had felt the first time, without tasting tears in the back of both their throats. He hadn’t and while he held Alyce Bradford in his arms who was still trembling with fear, cold and blood loss, he wished he had, he wondered whether he ever would. 

Sherlock had once said he was not a hero – and yet he hadn’t hesitated a second, to offer himself up as a hostage, before Bennett could panic and kill that girl in front of them.

Bennett was a huge man: tall, bulky, with black hair and pale green eyes. Bennett had also been very lucky – or fate had interfered, because in a matter of seconds Sherlock and he were gone. 

Sherlock had sacrificed himself for a girl he didn’t even know, he had walked toward the man without thinking, his hands up in the air, resolve in his face and body. He knew what that man did to his victims and he hadn’t even hesitated. And John was going to pieces while trying to calm down a hysterical teenager, who had spent twelve hours with a psychopath and was still bleeding.

“We will find him!” He heard Lestrade say behind him.

Later he would think back about those few seconds where everything had gone wrong, he would replay them in his mind, over and over, to try and understand how the hell did it happen; how he had spent minutes in comfortable silence in the cab with Sherlock, how could they have stolen glances throughout the day, even amidst the chaos and urgency while trying to find Alyce Bradford, how Sherlock could have stolen a quick but passionate kiss shortly before going to the address where they knew Bennett was hiding – and then things had gone so spectacularly from that to fucked up to hell.

Lestrade was barking orders while looking at him, John was tending to Alyce’s wounds while waiting for the auto ambulance and the paramedics to arrive, but it was all muscle memory, his mind was stuck in a loop of images of Sherlock’s face when Bennett had taken him, of his naked, scarred back, of the shattered mirror in the bathroom. 

“John?” Greg said. 

John looked up at him, the detective inspector looked shaken as well, but also determined. 

“I’m fine.” John said, he didn’t even know if it was what Greg had meant to ask him, he didn’t even care. 

He nodded at the paramedics who took over – he hadn’t even noticed the ambulance arriving to the scene. 

“There are roadblocks everywhere, we know his hiding spots, we will find them, I promise.” John nodded. 

He knew Greg was going to do his best and he was going to alert Mycroft as soon as he recalled how to breathe properly, but he couldn’t help thinking about the scars on the victims’ bodies, on Alyce’s body – he couldn’t help thinking about Sherlock and how that case had affected him. He knew they would find Bennett and Sherlock, he was just afraid of fate, afraid that they had run out of miracles and second chances.

* * *

 

John had never been scared of Mycroft Holmes. He knew, intellectually, that he was probably one of the most powerful men in the western world; according to Charles Augustus Magnussen he was the most powerful man in Britain.

To John, Mycroft Holmes had always been just Sherlock’s older brother: insufferable, pompous, cold and calculating, but having seen how deeply – although in a dysfunctional way – he cared for his brother, John had never feared him; they had one thing in common and one only: they loved Sherlock. 

He wasn’t scared of Mycroft now, although he could see why people were. Mycroft Holmes was angry. It was the cold fury that started wars, that ended lives, that unleashed an East wind to pluck out the unworthy, and John was sure that he was the only one, except probably Anthea, who realized the magnitude of Mycroft Holmes' anger in that moment. To anyone else he probably looked mildly cross.

It had been four hours, forty five minutes and twelve seconds since Bennett had taken Sherlock...and it was four hours, forty five minutes and ten seconds too many for John. Sherlock had theorized that Bennett knew London like the back of his hands during that long day; he had traced each possible itinerary, each route he might have taken, each shortcut – he had been right, Bennett knew his way around London, he had somehow avoided roadblocks, ditched his car, gotten rid of Sherlock's mobile phone and had disappeared. 

Mycroft had been abroad when John had told him. "I'll be here in three hours." He had said...and he had kept his word. Interestingly enough it had been Anderson who had come up with the idea of involving Sherlock's homeless network.

They were all looking for him, it was just a matter of time. John could only pace Greg's office, avoiding at all costs to think of worst case scenarios. He knew both Greg and Mycroft were thinking about worst case scenarios, instead; he saw that they were probably thinking about the possibility of having to look for Sherlock’s body instead than rescuing him. 

Bennett was unpredictable and John couldn’t stop thinking about the glee, the hunger he had seen in the man’s eyes when Sherlock had made his offer. Sherlock could take care of himself; it became his mantra while CCTV tapes were examined, while Mycroft’s resources – which were limitless, as far as John could see – were used to locate Bennett and Sherlock. Sherlock could kick that man’s ass and free himself – he had survived far worse than a run of the mill serial killer with a perchance for tall, dark haired people with angular features and blue eyes.

Bennett was a bloodthirsty killer who knew how to disappear, but he wasn’t a genius; Sherlock was. His mobile phone vibrated, John checked it, groaning when he noticed that it was yet another text from Mary. He knew he couldn’t ignore her forever, just like he knew that the tentative plan of buying time and wait until the baby was borne had been shot to hell the minute he had kissed Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who had kissed him back, who had stolen a quick, scorching kiss before hell had broken loose. Sherlock, who had asked for his trust when he had convinced him to take Mary back. He texted Mary, something inane and stupid, just to hold up the bloody façade, because Sherlock had asked him, because he had bled in their sitting room, a week after having been shot and had tried his best to convince him that Mary hadn’t meant to kill him. 

He had tried his best to lull Mary into a sense of security. The least he owned Sherlock was a couple of texts to the woman he had married. They were past the five hours mark; John tried not to think about all the autopsies reports he had read, he tried not to remember the pictures or the basement where they had found Jason Miller's body. Greg got out of the office and John started owlishly at the man's back, wondering whether he had missed something, Mycroft's voice made him start when he said, "Working yourself into a panic attack will not help my brother, John. Have a seat!"

John looked at the older man in disbelief, while Anthea took Mycroft's words as her cue to get out of the room.

"I'll stand, thank you!" John said

. Mycroft gestured to a chair and said, "I insist. Do sit, John!" 

John shook his head, but sat on the chair saying, "Happy? He shook his head and said, "I don't understand, Mycroft. Sherlock had him! I thought he would disarm him and knock him out. Why didn't he?" Mycroft seemed at a loss for words, for a moment, and it scared John.

"My understanding,” Mycroft said, eventually, speaking slowly, “is that there was a huge amount of incompetence from the police force and a series of unfortunate circumstances that led Bennett to escape." 

"I know!" John hissed, "I was there! That's not what I asked!" 

He had looked at Sherlock: he had been slow, uncharacteristically so. He had...frozen for a moment, wasting precious moments. 

"John, what happened outside that warehouse and the mistakes made will hardly help us finding Sherlock.” 

John nodded. He knew. Of course he knew. He was a soldier, a doctor, he knew how important it was not to lose lucidity, it was what made the difference between living and dying; Mycroft hadn’t seen Sherlock on the crime scene, though. He hadn’t seen his minute flinches, how much his mask had actually slipped.

“This case…” He started, but couldn’t finish his thoughts. Sherlock would kill him if he told Mycroft what he had seen – and he would not betray his trust like that. Mycroft, though, seemed to understand his silence, because he said, “My brother is human, John – you, more than anyone else, should know that.”

“I do.” John said. _That’s why I’m scared._ He thought. 

“Sherlock is also a strong man. And he has thankfully moved past his suicidal phase. I suppose he owes that to his _friends.”_ Mycroft said, looking at him, making it very clear that he was talking about him. 

“He killed Magnussen in front of witnesses, Mycroft – that’s…” John started.

“Sherlock had his reasons to kill Magnussen. Some of which I became aware of only after the fact.” Mycroft said and John didn’t miss the contempt in the older man’s words, contempt for the dead man, mostly. “Of course,” Mycroft continued, “he also killed him for you, but I imagine this doesn’t come as a surprise. You are both used to these shows of loyalty.”

John looked around for a moment, Mycroft knew about the cabbie – it surprised John it hadn’t come up sooner. He was actually more interested in what Mycroft had said about Sherlock having his own reasons for wanting Magnussen dead, reasons that had nothing to do with him.

Mycroft looked like he was done talking to him, for the moment, he handed him Sherlock's notes on the case, stuff he had scribbled on his moleskine throughout the day and said, "Quite peculiar that my brother chose to leave this here, don't you think?"

John blinked, they had left in a rush, and he was sure that notebook had been in Sherlock's coat, as usual, before they left. "Wait," John said, "Are you saying that he knew this would happen?" 

Mycroft shook his head and John could glimpse real worry and sadness in his eyes and his voice when he said, "Would this be truly a surprise to you?" 

"He saved that girl's life" John whispered. 

"And he entered the dragon's lair.." Mycroft said.

John gripped the notebook in his hand, "So much for not being suicidal..." he said, oblivious of how low his voice was. 

"Possibly. Or perhaps he wanted to prove something to himself..." 

_Christ_ , John thought, refusing to dwell on the implications of Mycroft's words. 

Sherlock had been affected by that case, he knew that -- it had been impossible not to, but he hadn't chosen to enter the dragon's liar, he had frozen. 

_Oh, God, Sherlock...what have you done?_ John thought. 

* * *

 

 It took them seven hours, thirty eight minutes and thirty seconds to find Sherlock: John was sure that a lot of heads were going to roll when the dust settled, both Greg and Mycroft would make sure of that.

In the end it had been a joint effort of all the forces involved but, in a turn of events that had surprised no one, least of all John, it had been Sherlock's notes that had helped them to find Bennett. The son of a bitch had a nice house in the suburbs, not far from where Jason Miller's mother lived. 

How Sherlock had connected the dots, the stream of consciousness thoughts, half of the words shorthanded, mixed with equations, chemical formula, words repeated over and over in his scrawl had been the closest glimpse John had ever gotten to understand how Sherlock's mind worked. It had filled him with wonder and had made him miss Sherlock so acutely that it had physically hurt. 

Greg's token protest that he couldn't go with them had fallen on deaf ears, he was riding in the car with the DI, his left hand steady as much as his heartbeat, almost preternaturally so. He was scared of what they would find, it was like part of his mind, of his heart, got sucked into a black hole when he tried to think about what could have happened to Sherlock for the past hours – the adrenaline junkie, the soldier, the doctor – the man who had marveled at Sherlock’s brilliance since their very first meeting (and had fallen a little in love? lust? with him) was calm, lucid.

Greg Lestrade was good at his job. Whatever had happened outside that warehouse wasn’t his fault, yet the man was acting as if it was; he had gone over each and every detail of the operation almost compulsively, not to risk Sherlock’s life (because he had to be alive. He _had_ to) or Bennett’s escape. 

“It’s not your fault.” John said. 

And perhaps those words were long overdue, and not meant just for the current mess. 

The DI shrugged his shoulders. He looked tired – he was running on fumes, like most of the people involved in the case, but his eyes were hard, lucid. 

“I didn’t see that coming.” Greg said.

And again, John thought that they weren’t just talking about what happened outside that warehouse. There were things they didn’t talk about, things they had never talked about, because it was not in their nature, because it had hurt too much – because guilt and grief could drive wedges between people and because it wouldn’t change what happened.

“That was sort of the point.” John said eventually. 

And he suspected it was true about Bennett as well, because John would have tried to talk some sense into Sherlock had he known or suspected. Just like he would have followed him to the ends of the Earth to help him three years before. 

Greg nodded his head, muttering under his breath, “bloody bastard!” and despite himself John smiled a little, but his smile faded when Greg said, “Now you listen to me, John. You will not be part of the operation; you will not enter that house with us.”

John clenched his jaws but didn’t say anything; he knew the procedures, he knew why Greg was telling him those things, that didn’t mean he wanted to do as said. Not with Sherlock’s life on the balance. 

“I know you could handle it – but we need to do this by the book! He killed five people and kidnapped one of _us_ , I won’t give him or his lawyer any excuse to get away with it!” 

John blinked. He hadn’t thought about Bennett surviving; as far as he was concerned Bennett was dead, he was already living on borrowed time. He had been dead the minute he had taken Sherlock. But Greg was a good, decent man. Greg’s blood wasn’t boiling in his veins – Greg hadn’t seen the marks on Sherlock’s back and heard him talk about torture in a matter-of-fact way.

“So I need to hear it from you that you won’t do anything stupid, anything rash and irrational. I swear that the minute the air is clear you’ll see Sherlock.” Greg said. He was looking at him, expecting an answer. 

They were there, Greg slowed down and John spotted the other cars and special forces. They were all silent, as they exited the car. John listened as Greg was debriefed: there were two people in the house, Bennett was apparently oblivious of what was happening outside, he had spent a good chunk of the past forty minutes in the basement. John’s initial relief at hearing that there were two people in the house turned into something acrid and burning in his heart as he heard about the basement. It only lasted a moment, though.

He didn’t allow himself to acknowledge the fear, he shoved it down, and focused on what the others were saying. They were all ready, getting in position; John very much doubted that some of the men and women he was seeing were yarders. It would be a quick, efficient job, because Mycroft was behind it. There were yarders as well, but except for Greg, John half suspected they were just there to project a veneer of “by the book” operation. 

“Stay here.” Greg said. 

John didn’t reply, didn’t make promises he knew damn well he didn't want to keep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needed to move, to get in the house, to fight his way in if necessary. He needed to see for himself that Sherlock was really alive, that they hadn't run out of miracles.

Time coiled unto itself. It happened when John heard the shot, loud and clear through the earpiece someone, he would never remember whom, had given him. Up until then they had been silent, the only noises coming through the earpiece had been a light static and someone's soft breaths.

And then...a single shot was fired, the sound of a body hitting the pavement, his heart hammering against his ribcage, the taste of sand, blood and adrenaline in his throat for a moment; and the silence had been deafening, eating everything else away, until someone had said the magic words: hostile taken down, captive recovered. It all became a blur, after that, a flurry of movements and voices and too bright lights outside that house.

He wasn't allowed to get inside the house for what it felt like hours, even though paramedics went in and he protested that he was a doctor, Sherlock's physician, and to fucking let him, but to no avail. John needed to move, to get in the house, to fight his way in if necessary. He needed to see for himself that Sherlock was really alive, that they hadn't run out of miracles.

Static coming from the half forgotten earpiece made him start; there was a curse, and then Greg said in a hoarse voice, "You can come in. Air is clear..." he paused and added under his breath, "so to speak."

 _Sherlock is alive_. It was his mantra, three words that sprung him to move, to rush inside the house. And it was hell; hell barely concealed by a thin film of normalcy. Bennett’s house wasn’t much different than the one he shared with Mary: it was cheery, with bright colors, comfortable – until one started to open doors and cupboards. War was senseless, but John could at least _pretend_ to understand some of it; his mind couldn’t really wrap itself around the horror that was unveiling in front of him, room after room, step after step.

Death polluted the air; the stench of blood, bleach, bodily fluids and rotten flesh was everywhere, mingled with the fresh one of gunpowder and burnt flesh. No one in the house was acknowledging that smell, but John could see its effects on those people's faces: they were yarders and operatives, men used to blood and swift rescue operations; but it was clear that those smells were bringing back memories, they were making their faces grow pale and green around the gills.

Death was in the pictures he spotted on the walls as he entered the smallroom that led to the basement. "Fuck, there are more!" He heard someone say behind him.

More victims...more than the five they had found. He didn't stop and look at the pictures, but he froze when he spotted Sherlock's scarf on the floor; he picked it up, stuffing it in a pocket of his coat. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds, yet he felt like time had slowed down, he had forgotten about the other people, about the pictures on the walls, about the stench inside the house, which was engulfing them, like a physical, oppressing thing.

The scarf had made everything real. Sherlock had indeed gotten inside that house, seen the bright colors of the walls, had walked toward that very room, had smelt rotten flesh and death, had deduced things John couldn't afford the luxury to dwell on, had seen the pictures – and had been finally brought to the basement. He moved, surprised by how steady his heartbeat and legs were.

He could hear voices coming from downstairs, but he couldn't hear Sherlock's ...and even though he knew that Sherlock was alive the man's silence was scaring him. The stench was stronger in the basement, it hit him almost like a physical blow to his stomach, making his throat pulse with the need to gag and making it refuse the air that was making its way down to his lungs.

Sherlock was alive, he kept reasoning to himself. Whatever Bennett had done to him, whatever had happened in that basement, they would find a way to overcome that. There were people in the basement; a small circle of agents (Mycroft's people) were around Bennett, who was on the floor, his hands handcuffed behind his back; he had been wounded, his right shoulder was bleeding, but no one was paying attention to it. Part of John, the one who had taken an oath was tempted to go and check on him, but it looked like a clean shot, besides he still couldn’t hear or see Sherlock.

He looked around, deciding to ignore all the objects in the large room – knowing he would be haunted by each and every item later, but not caring, not when Sherlock didn’t talk, not when he could not see the man.

“John.” Greg’s voice came from behind him.

He turned, frowning, he hadn’t seen him. “Where is he?” John asked.

"In the other room." Greg said and John hated the tone of his friend's voice, the hesitancy he caught in it.

He didn't understand. Sherlock was a strong man; he could definitely hold his own in a fight. He had seen him disarming C.I.A operatives, he had survived two years on his own and had dismantled singlehandedly Moriarty's web, why had...

_He entered the dragon's lair_

He followed Greg; the "other room" wasn't much bigger than a junk room. The first thing John noticed right before entering was the strong, coppery smell of fresh blood and the sickly acrid one of vomit; someone (Sherlock) had bled and retched in that small, windowless room. He took another step, but stopped on the threshold, while his eyes fixed on the walls: they were sound proofed, there was a rack on a wall with manacles attached to it.

Blood, fresh and old was everywhere in the room, there were rusty and crimson splatters on the walls, like macabre renditions of Rorschach's test. Sherlock's coat, his black jacket, the white shirt, his socks and even his shoes were in a puddle on the floor, next to the rack.

John stifled a sharp intake of breath settling, instead, on blinking his eyes. He knew Sherlock was in the room, he knew the man was looking at him, but for a moment he couldn't bring himself to look in his direction.

Mycroft had once called him brave; well, he didn't feel brave in that moment, he could only see and smell the blood in the small room and could only taste something bitter in the back of his throat. He took another step and finally got inside the small room; oblivious of the other men filling up the place, but acutely aware of the lack of oxygen in the room.

Sherlock was looking at him, he could feel it, with every fiber of his being, and his body physically ached with the need to see him and the fear of _what_ he might see. He turned, feeling as if his body was moving too slowly, as if everything had slowed down, except for his brain and his eyes, which took every detail of Sherlock in: the bright orange of the blanket wrapped around his naked, pale shoulders, the purple bruises on his neck, the blotches of color on his face, the crimson red of the blood everywhere; Sherlock’s eyes too grey and bright, spots of blood in the white of his eyes (petechial haemorrhage his brain supplied).

He couldn’t see his wounds – because he had been wounded, his body was in shock, he could see him trying not to shake, he could see how Sherlock’s body was betraying his brilliant mind – but he knew that would come later, after they got out of that small room, away from the stench and the lack of oxygen and the people around them.

As he took a step toward Sherlock he felt like their lives would add another “before” (before Bennett, before they had kissed, before he had seen Sherlock’s scars) and “after” to the list, but it didn’t matter, he decided, as he shortened the distance between them. It took him exactly six steps to be in front of Sherlock, ignoring the other people in the room, because the only one who mattered was sitting on a chair, not uttering a sound, apparently oblivious for once of his surroundings.

John raised his hand, perhaps to touch Sherlock, he wasn’t really sure, but he let it fall at his side when Sherlock said, “Don’t. I’m fine!”

And if John hadn’t known Sherlock, if he hadn’t spent years, after their conversation on the phone outside St. Bart’s, replaying each and every word Sherlock had ever spoken to him in his mind, if he hadn’t seen the scars on his back, perhaps he would have bought the curt tone of his voice, laced with boredom. But he had. God help him, he had.

No, he was not fine!

 _Fine_ was when Sherlock breezed through crime scenes, larger than life or played violin in their flat, or showed him London: the good, the bad and the ugly.

Fine was _not_ Sherlock with a shock blanket around his shoulders, gauzes dripping with blood all over his naked torso, black and red bruises on his neck, his clothes on that dirty floor and people fussing around him in that smelly room.

No. Sherlock was not fine, but John had also learned to pick his battles with the man: first thing first they had to leave that room, he had to see for himself what Bennett had done to him, he had to make sure Sherlock would stay still while he received blood transfusions and antibiotics, and he would not leave his hospital bed. Sherlock was getting impatient, John noticed, yet he was being remarkably quiet, not lashing out at the questions and the attention he was receiving – and that was the scariest thing for John.

He knew that Sherlock was still looking at him, but he was surprised when he realized that he still hadn’t looked at Sherlock, not really, not in the way it mattered; sure, he had taken in all the details of his body: the gauzes on his torso, the orange blanket, the paleness of his skin in contrast with the dark bruises on his neck, the blotches of color on his face, but he hadn’t really looked at Sherlock’s eyes, because he always knew the truth – deep down – when he looked at him, the only times Sherlock had been able to fool him it had been when he hadn’t looked at him.

He noticed other details that he had missed: Sherlock had a split lip, it was a small but deep wound on his lower lip; it was stupid to become fixed on that small wound, but John couldn’t stop looking at it. Sherlock’s lips twitched, and John blinked his eyes and tilted his eyes up. It had been less than ten hours since Sherlock had walked toward Bennett, his hands up, his coat swirling around him; mere hours – and each and any of them was etched on Sherlock’s face, on the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth, in the stormy grey of his eyes, too bright and naked.

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock said, “This…” he looked down at his naked torso and continued, “is nothing.”

John clenched his jaws. _Nothing…_ like the scars on his back, like the ones on his hand, under the dirty gauze, like the bullet scar on his chest. For a moment he was tempted to shake Sherlock by his shoulders, not caring about the other people in the room, not caring about anything that it wasn’t the rage, hot and black, simmering just under his skin.

He didn’t shake Sherlock, he didn’t even touch him; he couldn’t do that to him – not with the other people in the room, not when he had no idea what Sherlock’s reaction would be.

“We’re going to the hospital and _that_ is not up to debate.” John said.

Sherlock nodded his head; he looked at the men surrounding them and then pointedly at him. They didn’t need words; they rarely did when it mattered. He saw how Sherlock’s body almost imperceptibly relaxed when he took over and sent people away, using the tone of voice that he had used countless of times in Afghanistan, the one that made people obey him, no questions asked.

Even Lestrade got out of the room, leaving them alone, for a few seconds.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock said. He had said that more than once, but John wouldn’t believe it until he checked with his own eyes.

“Will you let me be the judge of that?” John asked.

Sherlock let out a sigh, one of his long suffering, dramatic shows of boredom, and John wished, God…how he wished he could believe him.

“Not here.” Sherlock said. “I – I’d appreciate your assistance in getting out of here, though.”

John nodded, choosing to ignore, for the moment, how much Sherlock must be in pain to actually ask for his help. Sherlock was cold: the chilly basement and the blood loss were making his skin icy cold to the touch. He blinked his eyes when he noticed that Sherlock’s back was bleeding, so much that it was dampening the orange blanket.

“It is unpleasant.” Sherlock said; even then Sherlock was still _him._

“It was sort of the point.” John said.

“No.” Sherlock replied, his voice betraying the pain he was feeling when he helped him up. “It was not his point.”

They walked, Sherlock could stand, could move, John had to remind himself that in order to tear that sense of unreality apart.

“What…” He tried, but his voice came out hoarse, it sounded foreign to his own ears, he swallowed past sand and blood and adrenaline and said, “what was his point?”

“To convey a message.” Sherlock said.

“From whom?” John asked.

Sherlock stopped walking; they were almost at the door, he knew that people were watching them, he knew what some of them might think, he imagined the kind of picture they formed in that moment: standing still, looking at each other, Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders, his arm looped around Sherlock’s waist – and he could not care less.

Sherlock’s eyes bore into his, for a moment, he noticed crusted blood trailing on the side of his neck, confused with the purple and red of the bruise, had he been hit? Cut?

“Moriarty.” Sherlock said. “It was a message from Moriarty.”

* * *

 

Gregory Lestrade was exhausted. He frankly didn’t remember when he had last slept or eaten something that didn’t come from a vending machine. Adrenaline was still running high in his body and not even the too hot rooms in the hospital (why were they so bloody warm? The artificial lights and stale air in those room sucked the oxygen out of them!) had made him sleepy.

Not that sleeping would have been high on his list of priorities anyway, not with so many things still to do. The good thing about Mycroft Holmes deciding to take over the investigation was that he wouldn’t have to deal with the bloody paperwork. He knew, from experience, that he would be given reports and statements to sign and, for once, he was glad to comply.

Bennett would pay for his crimes, justice would be served and Sherlock would be safe. He might have gone home, he _should_ have, once he had been given the pictures – he had barely skimmed through them, he could have lived 100 years without seeing what Bennett had done to Sherlock-, the medical examiner’s diagnosis and once he had been given a preliminary statement, knowing that he would find everything he needed on his desk, courtesy of Mycroft.

But then John, before the other doctors, had realized that Sherlock was bleeding internally, that his blood work would not improve and transfusions would not be enough, because blood was pooling and stagnating inside Sherlock. How could he leave after _that?_

He had sat on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, under those artificial, too white lights, while Mycroft was outside, speaking on his mobile phone – possibly deciding the fate of the free world for that week, and John sat still on the edge of his chair, his hands on his thighs, his face as pale as Sherlock’s had been when he had been wheeled to the operation room.

He had long learnt not to stick his nose in the complicated relationship between the consulting detective and the doctor; sure, he had his own ideas and suspicions; contrary to what Sherlock thought he _was_ an observant man, but he had also known Sherlock for a very long time; he had seen him at his worst: popping up at crime scenes high on cocaine, suicidal, reckless, insufferable, too thin, too angular, too cruel – and he had seen the changes in him as well. The Sherlock Holmes he had known would have never sacrificed his life for his friends. The Sherlock Holmes he had known didn’t have _friends,_ didn’t allow himself to have them. John Watson had changed that, he changed him – and Sherlock had changed the army doctor as well.

How could he leave John?

He minded his own business usually; if John wanted to get married,  pretend that he hadn’t got together with Mary only because Sherlock hadn’t been there, he would not talk, he would let him live his life, even if it meant that two people he loved both hurt; what he could do, as a friend, was to park his arse in that hospital hallway, even if his skin itched with the need of a shower, he had a horrible taste in his mouth and his back was killing him; because John Watson was going to pieces, like he had after Sherlock had staged his suicide, and that time he would not watch idly, because Sherlock would be _fine,_ because they had become some kind of family – bound together by their loyalty for one consulting detective.

He was looking for John, now. The surgery on Sherlock had been a success; Sherlock would sleep for the next however many hours it would take to the drugs to wear off – and John needed to sleep – or, at least, he needed to be reminded that he had a home, a bed and clean clothes that weren’t there.

He found him on the stairs between the hospital floors; his face between his hands, breathing heavily. The doctor acknowledged his presence hearing the steps behind him, Greg could tell, but he didn’t move.

“It’s me.” Greg said. John tensed. It was a subtle movement, and Greg might have missed it, if he hadn’t paid attention. He was, though.

Greg sat beside him on one of the steps – incredibly enough it was more comfortable than those plastic chairs in the hallway.

John didn’t look at him, but said, “I thought you had left.”

“I wanted to see if you needed a ride home, first.” Greg said. Yeah…like _that_ was ever going to happen. Like John would ever leave Sherlock’s side.

John didn’t look at him when he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Of course, he knew that. What John needed was not to go to pieces, not again, because Bennett had hurt Sherlock, and he had been the first one to see the consulting detective, before the younger man could allow himself to wear a paper thin mask of cold detachment over what Bennett had done to him. He had shot Bennett – while he was doing _things_ to Sherlock and after he had done _other_ things to the consulting detective.

He had seen the relief and the naked pain in Sherlock’s eyes and he knew that none of them: not Mycroft, not Mrs. Hudson, not Molly Hooper could really help Sherlock, only John could. And the only person who could help John was Sherlock himself.

He could – be a friend to John, now that he needed one.

“Right.” Greg said, “you might want to freshen up, though, I’m sure Mycroft can arrange something.”

John looked at him, frowning. Greg shrugged and said, “Sherlock would be less polite.”

The doctor shook his head, “I know.”

“Did you talk to Mary?” Greg asked. He didn’t know what exactly had happened between John and his wife, he hadn’t asked and he only had suspicions about what had changed between them, but he had a feeling that things were considerably more complicated than Mary understanding what all of them knew: that Sherlock Holmes came first for John, before everything and everyone. Besides, Mary was not stupid _or_ blind.

“Yes. She packed a bag with a change of clothes for me; she’ll bring it along later today.” John said, his voice absolutely devoid of any emotion.

“John – we got him in time.” Greg said in a low voice. Sherlock would roll his eyes at him for pointing out the obvious, but John needed to hear the words. Bennett had hurt Sherlock, but they had got him in time. It wasn’t like last time, when Sherlock had been shot and had flatlined on the operation table, and later had spent months recovering, after his senseless escape from the hospital.

“This case – ” John trailed, “it’s been bad since the beginning.”

Greg nodded. He wished he could say that he had noticed something, that he had seen what John had seen – but he hadn’t; he had gone back to the previous days over and over, for the past few hours, trying to understand when, exactly, Sherlock might have decided to offer himself up to Bennett in exchange for Alyce Bradford, but he had come up with nothing.

“How could we foresee that? It’s Sherlock.” Greg tried, but the excuse sounded weak to his own ears. A few years before it would have worked, though. A few years before they all would have thought Sherlock Holmes could not _feel._ Not like other people, but that had proved to be bollocks, and they both knew it.

Truth was that he had been flagger basted when Sherlock had stopped Bennett from killing Alyce Bradford under their eyes by offering himself up as a hostage. It had all happened in a matter of seconds and Greg suspected that those moments would come up and haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future.

“We got him in time, John. And you heard the doctors, he’s going to be _fine.”_ Greg said.

And God, he wanted so badly to believe in his own words, because he couldn’t shake the feeling, down in his gut, that bouncing back from what had happened wouldn’t be so easy for the consulting detective.

“I know, I know – it’s complicated.” John said.

Greg sighed, nodding at John’s words. When weren’t things complicated with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? He had seen the scars on Sherlock’s back and he wondered, for a moment, how much John knew about them. Talk about _complicated!_

“Any news about Bennett?” John asked.

“He’s in another hospital, heavily guarded. He’s refusing to speak.” Greg said.

He didn’t tell John that the fucking psychopath had said that he would only talk in front of Sherlock, that he would give names and dates and the places where he had dumped the other bodies only to the consulting detective. That could wait. It wasn’t orthodox, it wasn’t even particularly moral or respectful toward the other victims, but going by the book had taken the backseat when a psychopath had carved up his friend’s torso and had done things to him.

Not surprisingly Mycroft Holmes had agreed with him. He had also promised – no, he had given him his word that Bennett _would_ talk. And pay. And Lestrade had believed him.

John nodded at his words. He knew the doctor was hiding something. Sherlock had told him something, back when they were still in the basement. A whispered conversation while they were literally in each other’s arms – and no, he didn’t care about that, but it must have been something big, because John had strengthened his hold on Sherlock, and the consulting detective had seemed genuinely exhausted, more tired than Greg had ever seen him.

“Look, John – I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on, but whatever it is Sherlock and you are not alone in this.” _Not this time_. He thought.

A shadow of a smile crossed John’s features. And Greg was not stupid, he knew that John might intellectually agree with him, might rationally know that they had friends, people who would gladly lay down their lives for them, but in the end it was always Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the rest of the world. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to help them, though.

“You really should have that shower, mate.” Greg said, “and something to eat.”

John chuckled at his words and said, “Thanks, mum.”

There was a moment of silence, and it was comfortable, amiable, so much that when John talked, Greg started.

“Did he say something?” John asked in a low voice. He looked at him and specified, “Sherlock. When you got down there.”

He hadn’t noticed how red rimmed John’s eyes were, Greg was taken aback by the look in John’s eyes for a moment; the doctor had kept a tight lid over his emotions for the past however many hours they had been up, trying to stop Bennett. There was something naked, vulnerable in John’s eyes while he was looking at him, asking him – he didn’t know what, exactly.

John Watson didn’t like people sugarcoating things to him, that was just one of the many reasons why he had been drawn to Sherlock Holmes. It was also one of the reasons Greg respected him. John Watson loved facts, just like him. Problem was – he had no idea what he was really supposed to tell him. Not in that moment, at least. He had been the one who had freed Sherlock from the manacles, he could still smell the blood, he could still _see_ what Bennett was doing to Sherlock when they got down there.

“He asked about Alyce.” He said after a moment, deciding to stick to the bare facts. That had happened after Bennett had been dragged away, though. It had happened after Sherlock had crawled toward a corner of the small room, bleeding and shivering and had retched. And Greg had seen red for a moment, wishing to go to the other room and kick Bennett’s head in, because he had never seen Sherlock like that, not even at his worst, when he lived off of cigarettes and cocaine.

John blinked his eyes. He was not surprised, Greg thought, not exactly; Sherlock had saved that girl’s life, after all, but Greg saw John processing his words and nod his head.

“He – asked for a moment.” Greg continued and noticed how John swallowed at those words. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to be touched or looked at for a moment, he had seen the consulting detective schooling his features into a resemblance of detachment and calm, he had stared at a wall, for a few long seconds, while the trembling in his body abated; no one had moved, no one had helped him up, Sherlock had slowly got on his feet, only then had Greg stepped up and helped him sit.

“He – asked about you.” Greg said, “he – honestly, John? I think he was worried about you. He only accepted the blanket when you got in the house.”

Greg saw the bitter smile that crept on John’s lips; he knew there were things, _private_ things he was not privy of, things he didn’t even want to know most of the times; he could still see Sherlock in that basement, stripped naked, slowly and carefully putting his trousers on and accepting the blanket when he heard that he had given John the all clear to get in the house – he could still see the old scars on his body and the surprise they had elicited in the paramedics and the other people in the room.

“May I ask you a question?” Greg said. John nodded, even though he seemed miles away, lost in his own thoughts, in those private things between Sherlock and he that had fueled the rumor mill about them for years, but that seemed true, now, so solid – and that didn’t really matter. Not really.

“What happened to Sherlock?” Greg said, John looked at him, puzzled, and Greg hesitated for a moment before adding, “I saw old scars –”

They all did, and Greg had felt protective of the younger man, trying to shield his body with his from the other people’s inquisitive stares. He looked at John; the man was looking down at his open hands, frowning.

“Forget it…” Greg said. “I shouldn’t have said anything –”

“He fell to save us.” John said.

Greg nodded; he knew, not the details, not as much as John knew, but he knew that there had been an assassin ready to kill him, that day – when Sherlock had flung himself from St. Bart’s rooftop. He knew he owed his life to Sherlock, and that the younger man had still counted him as his friend, even after he had fallen for Moriarty’s lies, albeit briefly.

“Those scars – he took down Moriarty’s web.” John continued. He looked at him and said, “Alone.”

John didn't add anything else, he let those words hover over them, and Greg could have filled in the blanks, he had been a copper long enough to, but chose to let it go, for the moment at least. "I think I'll have that shower now." John said, getting up, and only in that moment did Greg notice the blood on John's shirt; Sherlock's blood.

John seemed to notice it too, he looked at the stains on the side of his shirt, the shoulders and shook his head, before saying, "He is not a sociopath, you know? Or a psychopath."

"I never thought he was." Greg said.

It was the truth; he wouldn't have allowed Sherlock anywhere near a crime scene if he had thought he was. John touched the stains of blood with his fingertips and said, "He won't be alone. Not this time." John said and Greg doubted John was aware he had said those words aloud.

John shook his head and sucked in a breath. And Greg wanted to ask questions, he wanted to reassure John that Sherlock wouldn't be alone that time, that he had friends, people who loved him, but in the end he didn't. John had talked about himself -- he wouldn't leave Sherlock alone, he wouldn't allow Sherlock to bleed and be scarred, not any more.

He didn't need John to say the words, to specify. It was clear in his eyes when the doctor looked at him; it was clear in his voice when he said, "thank you, Greg. For everything."

Because Greg might care about Sherlock, and he did. He truly did; but John? He would destroy everything and everyone who got near Sherlock -- he would, without thinking twice, because John Watson _loved_ Sherlock.

No, he decided seeing the way John's was carrying himself: fear and heartbreak and resolve all rolled into one.

John Watson was _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He moved. He could finally run, on broken glass, bleeding, but he didn’t care. He need to leave those woods. He needed to (wake up, stop being filthy, stop being afraid, stop bleeding) reach John –  
> John loved him – and he loved John.  
> John would –

_He was running, he could hear them, all around him: eight, no – ten men, dogs, sniffing his scent , two helicopters above him. Yet Sherlock ran, focusing on everything but his body – it was, after all, mere transport; there was pain; running on broken glass barefoot was painful, but he could escape, he could (stay alive, which was the problem, the final problem after all. ) get out of those woods; he stumbled over something and fell, the glass pierced the tender skin of his palms._

"...look how you bleed pretty, red on white, your skin is soft, Sherlock; he told me about it. He told me so much about you."

_Sherlock shook his head – he knew that voice, perfect RP, not a hint of his true origins, not that it mattered, he was (pain, blood, bitter taste in his mouth, hands around his neck, his erected member, straining against his jeans, rutting against his hip while he choked him and cut him and whispered in his ear) not there – but the girl on the broken glass pavement was; and she was split open, red over white, blue eyes open and unseeing._

_Sherlock hovered over her, she blinked her eyes, a low keen escaping from her lips. "We died because of you." The girl said and it was peculiar how she could talk even though her throat had been slit. Sherlock could see bubbles of blood coming out from her mouth, spurts of it from her throat, but she talked, her voice crystal clear, her tone harsh. "We died because of you." The girl repeated, she was young, so very young, long limbs and marred skin, beaten, starved, raped and killed and she talked, accused him, and Sherlock wanted to speak, but his jaws hurt too much, his throat burned, the bitter taste in his mouth was making him numb, unable to say what he wanted to say._

_"I..." He croaked. Why did his jaw and throat hurt so much?_

_"We are twelve, we are dead, you killed us when you failed. Why did you fall if you had to fail?" Her voice was harsh, her eyes dark now, pupils blown so much that just a tiny ring of blue was visible while she said, “why do you get to come back? You fall and fail and we bled for you.”_

_Footsteps, they were coming, for him, glass pierced his skin as he got up; it was like being cut, like a razor blade on his skin._

“Look at those scars. They’re beautiful! Normally I’d say you’re not good enough for me. But you are. Oh, you are as good as he said you would be.”

_He was bleeding, he could feel dampness on his skin, warm and thick, but he ignored it. It was just transport. Pain was easy to ignore, after a while._

“Say them. One after another. In alphabetical order. I want to hear your voice. I want you with me while we do this, Sherlock!”

“Calcaneus, Capitate, Clavicle, Cuboid”

_There was someone behind him, the girl on the pavement, surrounded by ruby red shards of glass was smiling, blood coming out from her lips; she was sated – he was bleeding._

_“I wouldn’t have let you bleed.” Magnussen said, “I like my assets whole.”_

_His tongue, his touch – damp, warm, on the back of his neck, Sherlock shivered, swallowing past the bitter taste in his throat._

_“I killed you.” Sherlock said. Was that his voice? So – broken and hesitant. He couldn’t turn, he couldn’t look at Magnussen, he was trying to, but he could. Not. Move._

“Cuneiform Bones, Eigth Rib , Eigth Thoracic Vertebra…”

“That’s it. Good boy, keep it going, do you feel it? This is your skin piercing, I’m carving you, Sherlock, nice and easy.”

_“You did – and what did it bring you?” Magnussen sing-songed._

_His tongue – against his face, he was like a snake, coiling himself around him, even if Sherlock couldn’t move, couldn’t see him, he could feel him in his wounds, in his lungs, on his skin._

_“You are dead.” Sherlock said, and the girl on the pavement chuckled._

_“It hasn’t stopped him.” both Magnussen and the girl said. And Sherlock fell to his knees; he could hear them. All of them. The dead, the wounded, the wounds and the blood. Singing his name, laughing at him, laughing at his weakness._

“He told me to go easy on you, Sherlock – because you’re his, you’ve always been his. Now be good and open up for me.”

_“Sherlock –” John. What was John doing there? He was not supposed to be there. He had done all of that so that John would not be there (fell, ran, bled, lied, killed – for him. All for him.)_

_“Mmm…” He heard Magnussen whisper, hungrily – he wanted to taste John. Like he had tasted him._

_“Stay away, John.” He wanted to scream those words, but his jaw hurt, his throat burned._

_“You need to wake up, Sherlock.” John said._

_He could not see him, but he was there, in those woods, and Sherlock wanted to tell him not to move, for the broken glass might hurt him (scar him, make him bleed – and John could not bleed because of him. Not ever!) Wake up._

_“Sherlock.” John said. And he could make out John’s silhouette in the distance._

_Could John see him? God – no. He could not see him. Not like that._

“If he saw you now. I should take pictures – let everyone see how fucking beautiful you are. So – red and eager.”

_“Don’t.” He whispered. To John. To Magnussen. To Bennett. To the dead girl on the pavement. To Moriarty. (don’t look at me. Don’t see me. Don’t observe me. Don’t hurt me.)_

_“Sherlock, love, I’m here.” John said._

_He was there, all around him. He could hear him, feel him. And God – he wanted to stop bleeding, stop hurting._

_“Go on, then.” Magnussen said, damp breath against his ear, “wake up, go to your soldier. Maybe he likes damaged goods. I’ll be here. We’ll all be here.”_

_He moved. He could finally run, on broken glass, bleeding, but he didn’t care. He need to leave those woods. He needed to (wake up, stop being filthy, stop being afraid, stop bleeding) reach John – John loved him – and he loved John._

_John would –_

_Hands. On him. Warm hands. He could not see them. They were holding him. He needed to (wake up, wake up for God’s sake!) get free._

_John. John’s hands, on his face. Calling him. Beaconing him._

_“Sherlock, you need to –”_

“-- calm down – you’ll tear up the stitches!”

_John’s voice – from the outside. Where it was warm, without broken glass sparkling on the pavement._

_Sherlock stopped. Black, all around him. Cold. Sharp. Bitter._

_There was only one thing he could do. He had to wake up (fall, fall, fall – ashes to ashes, blood on the pavement, John crying, his own knees bruised while kneeling on the dirty floor of a basement)_

_He had to fall._

* * *

 

 Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. He hadn’t looked at him, ever since he had woken up from – bloody hell, from a fucking _nightmare._ He had clung onto him, for the first few seconds after, taking in big gulps of air against his neck – and John had stayed at his side, while nurses and the doctor silently left the room, giving them a modicum of privacy – not that Sherlock had been aware of them, not right then, while panting against his neck and taking fistfuls of his medical scrubs – wearing his clothes had proved to be impossible for John, after his shower – and John had let him, he hadn’t touched Sherlock, afraid of what his reaction might be, he had just been there, for him.

“I’m fine.” He had said after a while, John had no idea how long it had been, “I’m fine.” He had repeated and John – John had clenched his hands in fists against his sides, while pretending to believe Sherlock, while pretending he hadn’t felt dampness (tears) against his collarbone.

Sherlock hadn’t looked at him, not once, since his breathing had calmed down and he had moved away from him. He had been silent while the doctor examined him – not asking him to leave the room, but not acknowledging his presence either - , he had been silent while the nurses took his vitals, and fussed over his IVs, he had kept looking at the wall after, when they had remained alone in the room. John was looking at him, now.

He knew Sherlock was aware of that, he knew he was testing the man’s patience with his stare and that he would say something – possibly something hurtful, scathing to stop him. But as the seconds tickled, Sherlock didn’t talk, didn’t look at him, he kept staring at that fucking wall and John wanted – needed Sherlock to do something, anything –

“Alyce Bradford’s parents dropped by earlier – they wanted to know how you were doing.” John said, breaking the silence. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t look at him – and how could someone miss a person if they were right there?, but John knew he had heard him. “They want to thank you.” John said.

That caught Sherlock’s attention, the man’s hands twitched and he minutely shrugged his shoulders. “What for?” He eventually said and he still wasn’t looking at him, and John knew – he knew Sherlock wanted to – needed to reassert the status quo, so he sighed and said, “You saved their daughter’s life.”

There. Sherlock was finally looking at him. He could see that Sherlock wanted to sneer those people’s gratitude away, he wanted to be an arsehole, he could recognize the look in his eyes, but in the end he decided against it, which actually scared John.

“You know I didn’t care about that girl’s life, John.” Sherlock said, eventually, sounding tired and hoarse. But he was looking at him, now, pinning him with his gaze

“But you did save her, Sherlock.” John said.

“Did I?” Sherlock said, “Did you count the pictures on that wall? I assume you did see them.”

No. He had not counted the pictures. He didn’t even remember the faces in those pictures, he didn’t _care._

“He has killed twelve people to lure me in.” Sherlock said, and it was a statement, devoid of any emotion. “I simply acknowledged that I had finally got his message.”

“You knew?” John asked – and he didn’t know whether he was talking about Bennett, Moriarty or both.

“I suspected.” Sherlock admitted, “I did not know about Moriarty, though.”

John blinked, resting his back against the chair. He shouldn’t be surprised, not really – Sherlock had put himself in the hands of a psycho cabbie the first day they had known each other, but – he hadn’t done things like that since his return. He hadn’t put himself on the line, hadn’t offered himself up to the first psychopath that crossed his way since his return.

He had been careful. Except that with Magnussen.

“Don’t look at me like that, John – what was I supposed to do?” Sherlock asked.

“Tell Lestrade? Tell me?” John said.

He did not want to shout, he didn’t want to feel breathless and so angry that he could smash his fist against the wall without feeling anything that it wasn’t the burning hot rage that was simmering underneath his skin.

“I only knew for certain when we were there.” Sherlock said.

As if that settled things, as if he wasn’t lying in a hospital bed after having been _tortured_ by Bennett.

John shook his head, “You should have told us, Sherlock. That's what the S.W.A.T team is for, we –”

Sherlock had told him he tried to learn from his mistakes - he had called for back up, and even then he had suspected he was Bennett's intended victim. And he hadn't told him! So much for learning from his mistakes!

“Crying over spilled milk does not become you, John – don’t be boring!” Sherlock snapped.

Sherlock knew he was angry. Oh, God, he knew – he was pushing his buttons in that moment, and John knew that if he allowed him to go on, to talk, he would say something _really_ hurtful…he would push him to do something he would regret later, so he breathed through his nose and willed himself to calm down.

“Don’t.” He said to Sherlock. “Don’t play this game now, Sherlock.”

“I’m _not_ playing.” Sherlock replied in an even voice, keeping his hands neatly folded on his lap while the white gauzes around his wrists made him think about the red, angry abrasions on his skin – and how it would bruise and John wondered, for a moment, if Sherlock realized how fucking close he was to smash his fist against the wall behind them, how much he wanted to hit something over and over until he stopped seeing the bruises, the scars and the blood.

The worst of it was that Sherlock _knew_ how angry he was, and that he was using that knowledge to try and send him away, so John focused on the gauzes covering Sherlock’s torso, the bigger one, the one from the surgery was on his right side, where the hemorrhage had started. Bennett had nicked a fucking capillary, of all things. It was not the worst thing he had done to Sherlock, not by any stretch of imagination – but it had started the internal bleeding which, luckily had been minor.

The fact that Sherlock had _not_ even realized that he was bleeding internally had terrified John even more than the rush to the OR, because even if his blood work had been shot to hell, operating him had been the quickest way to stop the bleeding. And Sherlock still acted like it was nothing, even while in a hospital bed, smelling of betadine and blood, with all kind of tubes sticking out from his body and after waking up with a shout from a nightmare.

Sherlock still wanted to be a stubborn arsehole – and John felt his lips curving in a smile, thinking that the time where he fell for that particular type of trick was over.

“I’m _not_ leaving.” John said, looking at him, “Be a bastard as much as you like. I’m not falling for it!”

“I see.” Sherlock replied. And John recognized that tone of voice; Sherlock used it all the time on suspects, on people he wanted to antagonize. “You think this is a ploy to keep you at bay –”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” John said.

“I fail to see why you are so angry, John. That’s what I have always done. I caught a serial killer!”

“Ninety two stiches.” John said. “You were in Bennet’s hands for only eight hours and – should I tell you what Bennet did to you in 480 minutes? I read your chart, you know?”

“And I’m not suffering from amnesia. I remember _everything.”_ Sherlock said icily.

“480 minutes and you lost two pints of blood, Sherlock. One and half in his basement, the rest was stagnating in your belly.”

“John –” Sherlock said, in a warning tone.

“He didn’t break any bones, but then again he started breaking Alyce’s after he was done with the flogging, so that would have been his next step!”

Sherlock leveled him with his gaze and hissed, “Stop it.”

“Why?” John asked. “You love facts. You didn’t give a fuck about offering yourself up to him, why don’t you want to hear what he did? Or do you want me to tell you what we did to find you?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. “Please, leave.” He said, a bored note in his voice, “You are being irrational and I’ve already endured my fair share of it for the past –” he looked at the round clock on the wall in front of him and said, “fourteen hours. Go back to Mary.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. God, he could not believe the words he had just said; and Sherlock – was right, for once, at being a dick to him. He deflated, resting his back against the chair. What had he just done?

“I’m sorry.” John said, “I’m _so_ sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have said –”

Sherlock opened his eyes and shook his head, moving a hand to his knee, resting it here. “I know why you are angry with me, John.” His voice was soft, now, he looked exhausted – and younger, somehow. And John might have just fallen in love with that impossible man all over again.

“I’m not – Sherlock, I’m not angry with you.” John whispered, feeling his eyes filling up with tears and trying to fight them.

He had held on remarkably well ever since that nightmare had started; he had soldiered on, because finding Sherlock, finding him alive was more important than the way his blood was boiling in his veins or his heart had been stuck in his throat with fear. He was too tired, now – too raw to keep a stiff upper lip. His vision blurred for a moment and he had to blink, and when he talked his voice came out low and it hurt to speak.

“I – you froze, Sherlock. And I did too, and Bennett – could do those things to you.” John said, without looking at Sherlock. He could not look at the man: wounded, pale, in bed while he burdened him with how bloody afraid he had been.

“He said something.” Sherlock said.

His hand was still resting on his knee and John was tempted to take it – because he knew he could, because before Bennett took Sherlock things had happened between them, Sherlock’s fingers grazed the soft denim of his jeans, tracing small circles with the pad of his thumb on his knee, (was he even aware he was doing that? Or, like him, he just needed the touch to feel anchored?), while he said, “I did not freeze. Not in the way you think.”

John took Sherlock’s hand in his, and if Mary got inside that room in that very moment – unlikely, since there were guards outside, courtesy of Mycroft – he wouldn’t have cared.

“What happened?” John said.

“Three bullets.” Sherlock said, “that’s what Moriarty said that day, on the roof. That’s what Bennett told me – that’s why I followed him.”

* * *

 

 Mary looked tired. That was the first thing that John noticed when he saw her. Mycroft’s guards hadn’t let her in – not that she had insisted on entering Sherlock’s room – so John had had to leave Sherlock – with Mycroft. He hadn’t wanted to leave Sherlock, not after what he had told him, not when Moriarty was involved – even if it had to be a bluff, because Moriarty was dead.

He had to be.

Mary hugged him, she was warm, wearing _clair de la lun_ and, for just one moment, he let himself be hugged, for a few heartbeats – he hung onto her, feeling the baby kicking against her stomach. He felt like a terrible human being, because he needed _that_ – even though he loved Sherlock with every fiber of his being and would leave Mary in a heartbeat if Sherlock told him it was safe to leave her.

“What happened?” Mary asked, leading him away – and John couldn’t help but wonder whether Mary had just exploited his weakness, his frayed nerves and had let Sherlock see them. Or was he paranoid? It didn’t matter, though, because Mary was leading him away, linking her arm under his, her eyes full of concern.

“It’s – a long story.” John said, “We caught a serial killer – but things got out of hand for a few hours.”

That was the understatement of the century; Herman Bennett had _tortured_ Sherlock (in _every_ way he could, for eight hours) either under Moriarty’s command or because he thought he was following Moriarty’s instructions. He was somehow privy of the words Moriarty had told Sherlock to make him jump from that rooftop.

“Oh my God…” Mary said, “Is Sherlock alright?”

John nodded, “Yes. He’s fine. Just – you know…” he trailed, not trusting his voice.

And all of sudden, he couldn’t bear to be touched by Mary. She had shot Sherlock, he had a round, puckered scar in his chest to prove it. She had shot him, probably looking at him in the eyes, without a ounce of remorse. She had hugged him, in that very hospital, just a few hours after she had _killed_ Sherlock.

“John…” Mary said, touching his shoulder and John recoiled, taking a step back, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him.

He realized that he hadn’t looked at Mary in the eyes. She was pale, he could see that her fingers were swollen and her back must be killing her, but he couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t bear to look at her, not if he wanted to keep up appearances – and he didn’t want to. He wanted to go back to Sherlock’s room, before Mycroft upset him, or before they came up with another stupid plan that ended up with Sherlock _bleeding_ (again) – for him.

Mary sighed and John thought that maybe that was going to be it; she was going to see right through him, throw the overnight bag on the pavement, possibly shooting him and that pointless charade would be over. For a moment he wanted Mary to do just that – to drop the pretense and be herself. Not surprisingly, she didn’t.

She took a step toward him, careful both not to invade his personal space and touch him and said, “Come, I’ll buy you a coffee – you look like you need it.”

John felt hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest; having a cup of coffee with his assassin wife, while the person he loved, a _bloke,_ his best friend, was in a hospital bed – sure, why the fuck not? He swallowed the hysterical laughter down, and followed Mary in the canteen; while his mind was stuck on what Sherlock had told him, on the looks Mycroft and Sherlock had exchanged shortly before Mary arrived – on Sherlock’s scars, the old and the new ones.

Mary made him sit at a table, thrusting the overnight bag in his arms and went to fetch the coffee, and John thought that he was a rubbish human being, allowing a heavily pregnant lady to bring him coffee – and the thought made him chuckle, and God – he was losing his mind. Mary sat in front of him a few seconds later and handed him a cup of coffee.

“Here --” she said. John was still holding that stupid bag in his arms, and looked at the cup for a few seconds, until Mary hissed, “For God’s sake, John, I didn’t poison it! Drink that bloody coffee!”

“Or what?” John snapped.

Mary’s eyes welled up with tears and John sighed. “I’m sorry – can we start over?”

“I thought we had.” Mary said, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.

“It’s been a long – God, I don’t even know how long I’ve been up.” John said.

He knew, he had counted every second, but what could he tell Mary? He drank his coffee – hoping that indeed it wasn’t spiked or poisoned and said, “I’m sorry, Mary. I truly am.”

She nodded. She wasn’t buying his words, she was too smart to, but – maybe she wanted to believe in them. He knew something about self deception, his whole life for the past few years was ample proof of that.

“What happened to your clothes?” She asked, gesturing at his scrubs.

“Had to bin them.” He replied, “You know how it is…”

Mary studied him for a moment and then softly asked, “John – is Sherlock all right?” She tilted a finger up, stopping him before he could talk and said, “I made a terrible mistake that night, John – but I do care about him. And I owe him _everything.”_

He wanted so much to believe her, to trust her. He wanted to believe that she cared for Sherlock – or for him, but he couldn’t; he couldn’t trust her with Sherlock’s life – he couldn’t trust that she would not betray them again.

“He was wounded, but he is going to be fine, Mary – you know him.”

“And you?” Mary asked, “when was the last time you slept? You barely slept the night this case started.”

“I’m fine. I’m not tired.” John said.

“You should come home, you’re going to crash…” She worried her lower lip between her teeth and said, “I know you think Sherlock can’t –”

“Don’t.” John said, interrupting her.

“Fine!” She snapped, “do it your way, John. Or Sherlock’s, as usual!”

“He didn’t ask me to stay.” John replied and he tried to keep his voice even, he was trying hard not to seethe with rage, because every time Mary said Sherlock’s name he saw red blooming on a white, crisp shirt, an angry, red, bullet wound on pale skin, Sherlock being so weak that he literally couldn’t raise his head from the pillow and had to be helped.

“He doesn’t need to.” She said, and she sounded sad – and resigned. Which pissed John off; what the fuck did she think she was doing? Did she think that she was being noble by _allowing_ him to love Sherlock as much as he did? Would she turn a blind eye, pretending not to know that things had changed between Sherlock and he, all in the name – of what, exactly?

“Mary…” He started, even though he had no clue about what to tell her.

Mary seemed to notice his hesitation, because she said, “Please, John – don’t make it worse than it is. I accepted a long time ago how things were going to be.”

 _Did you?_ John thought. _Is that why you shot him?_

“He needs me –” John said, weakly, it was only part of the truth, the tip of the iceberg.

Mary got up, her hand on her belly, the look in her eyes was hard, though, when she said, _“You_ need him. Sherlock lives means John Watson lives, right?”

John looked at her surprised. The fact that she would mention that blog entry, so long after he had made it, while still bursting with joy because Sherlock was back, unsettled him. How long had she known? Mary was smiling but there was a look akin pity in her eyes; how fucked up he was? His assassin wife pitied him and even then he could only think about Sherlock, in his room, with Mycroft.

God, he was pathetic.

“I’m going home.” Mary said, her lips pressed in a thin line, she pinned him with her gaze, and there was no pity in it, no sympathy when she added in a low voice, “Give my love to Sherlock. Tell him we’re even now.”

John frowned, looking at her. Mary’s smile was saccharine sweet when she said, “Just tell him that, will you?”

John wanted to stop her, because her smile was too sweet, too unlike any smile he had ever seen on Mary’s lips, while the look in her eyes was cold, unforgiving. “It’s not his fault.”

John said in a low voice, he wasn’t even sure Mary had heard him at first and didn’t checked to see if she was looking at him or she was even there when he added, “It’s mine.”

When he looked around, though, Mary had already left and John knew – felt, that she knew, that she considered her score with Sherlock settled, but matters with him were far from solved.

He suspected Mary hadn’t even started with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Three years ago I insisted with Sherlock that you were not to know about our plan. Jim Moriarty’s associates would have known if your grief hadn’t looked genuine. It was a cavalier way to ensure both the success of our plan and your protection.” Mycroft looked at him and said, “I won’t apologise, John, because it was necessary. I am not Sherlock.” He drew in a breath and said, “Nevertheless I admit that I had underestimated the attachment between my brother and you. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Sherlock was asleep when John came back in the room, he was not surprised seeing Mycroft still there, sitting at Sherlock’s bedside, reading Sherlock’s medical chart, a bored look on his face, if one didn’t notice how tightly he was holding the folder, so much that his knuckles had got white.

“John.” Mycroft said without turning, his voice low as not to wake Sherlock up. “I take your meeting with Mary hasn’t gone well?”

John rested his overnight bag on a chair, Mycroft got up, closed the folder and rested it on his chair, he casted a brief glance at Sherlock’s sleeping form, he turned and looked at him and said, with a tight smile on his lips, “A word?”

John was tired, he didn’t particularly want to chat with Mycroft, but he was sure he didn’t really have a choice. He nodded, resisting the urge to look at Sherlock and followed the older man outside.

“I would suggest a trip to the canteen, but you have just been there.” Mycroft said and John shook his head, wondering if he would ever stop being surprised by the Holmes’ deductions. Mycroft stopped in front of the elevator, John hadn’t even noticed they had walked in silence, he covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, starting to feel the weight of the past forty eight hours.

“Mycroft -” He said following the man in the elevator, “could we possibly get to the point so that I can sleep in the cot they have so kindly provided me? Thanks, by the way.”

“In a moment.” Mycroft said and his voice suggested that it was not up to debate.

John shivered when they got outside the hospital; he had got used to the stuffed air of the hallways and Sherlock’s room, and was still wearing the cotton medical scrubs. It was raining and John closed his eyes for a moment, grateful for the cold after the initial shock, it was waking him up.

“Herman Bennett is refusing to talk,” Mycroft said, “he insists that he will only reveal the hiding sites of the remaining victims to Sherlock.”

John recoiled at Mycroft’s words, he couldn’t help it. The idea of that man being anywhere near Sherlock again, after what he had done, made his blood boil with rage – it made him wish that whoever had taken Bennett down in that basement had killed him, and he didn’t care about the other victims, he didn’t care about justice and morality.

“Does – Sherlock know?” John asked.

He didn’t say that it was never going to happen, he didn’t need to, it was clear in Mycroft’s posture, in the way he was looking at him, that he was thinking the same.

“Not yet. But he will – even if both Detective Inspector Lestrade and I will do everything in our power to avoid that happen.” Mycroft said.

John blinked, so Greg knew that already? Had he known when they had talked a few hours before?

“Did you talk to Sherlock?” John asked.

Mycroft smiled, and there was something almost – vulnerable in that smile, something wistful. _“He_ did. In his own way.” He finally said.

The night he had first met Mycroft Holmes, the man had candidly admitted that he worried about his brother, constantly.  At the time, he hadn’t known either man, he hadn’t known how true those words were. He thought, for a moment, that if he had only stopped and thought, three years before, he would have never really believed that Mycroft could betray his own brother.

Mycroft was worried – and heartbroken in that moment, John realized. Mycroft wanted to protect his younger brother, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t allow him to do so. And the fact that Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes was so worried scared him.

“Why are we here, Mycroft?” John asked.

“Three years ago I insisted with Sherlock that you were not to know about our plan. Jim Moriarty’s associates would have known if your grief hadn’t looked genuine. It was a cavalier way to ensure both the success of our plan and your protection.” Mycroft looked at him and said, “I won’t apologise, John, because it was necessary. I am not Sherlock.” He drew in a breath and said, “Nevertheless, I admit that I had underestimated the _attachment_ between my brother and you. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

John wasn’t sure where Mycroft was going with that, because it was implicit that he would help him, that he would not allow Sherlock to plunge head first into another match with Herman Bennett, even if he had to physically restrain him.

“I don’t understand.” He admitted.

“My brother’s physical wounds will heal.” Mycroft said, “Physical pain is but an afterthought for him as you know. He will refuse to acknowledge the emotional side of his ordeal. Much like he has always done.” The older man looked at him, John knew he was dissecting him, deducing his every though and action.

John didn’t comment on Mycroft’s words. What could he say anyway? He knew the elder Holmes was right; he knew Sherlock would insist he was _fine,_ that his body was merely transport, that he was above all those pesky things as trauma or PTSD.

“Everyone has a breaking point, though. Without exceptions.” Mycroft said, his voice dangerously low. John thought that it was probably costing him to say those words; despite their ever ending feud John knew how proud of Sherlock Mycroft really was. How much he _worried._

“You are my brother’s pressure point, John. Should you not –” Mycroft started, but John interrupted him saying, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mycroft’s eyes lingered on his left hand, on the wedding band on his finger, before he said, “Are you? Does your wife know? Should we expect another surprise from her?”

John held his head high, not breaking Mycroft’s gaze; the man hadn’t raised his voice, his tone had been politely inquisitive, but John knew the older man was furious.

“I’m not going anywhere.” John repeated. God, how many times had he said those words for the past hours? To paramedics, to nurses, to doctors, to Greg, to Sherlock. He would not leave Sherlock, he didn’t care how complicated things would get, how crazy, how dangerous. He couldn’t leave Sherlock any more that he could stop breathing and still existing.

“Magnussen had got it all wrong, you know?” John said. Mycroft cocked his head on a side, silently inviting him to elaborate. “He thought Mary was my pressure point, but he was wrong. It’s Sherlock. It’s always been Sherlock. And yes, Mary knows. I think deep down she has always known.”

“Very well.” Mycroft said, refraining from commenting on Mary, “You should rest, John. You do look tired.” He gave him a smile and said, “Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Miss Hooper and your wife are all under surveillance, as a precaution.”

“Do you think Moriarty is still alive?” John asked.

They hadn’t touched the subject of what Herman Bennett had said to Sherlock, of what he had carved on Sherlock’s chest: _Moriarty’s_ name.

“Despite what Herman Bennett claims, we doubt it. I think – and Sherlock agrees, that he’s just part of his legacy, so to speak.” Mycroft said.

“So he risked his life for two years only to have a psychopath carving him up in Moriarty’s name?” John said and he felt bile rising up in his throat.

There were moments where he almost forgot, moments where those long eight hours and everything that Bennett had done to Sherlock took the backseat to his recovery, to the hours of waiting in the hospital, to Sherlock’s idiocy when he had decided that falling for a psychopath trap was the logical solution – and then it all came back: the angry, deep scars on Sherlock’s torso, the new scars on his back, the bruises, the _things_ Bennett had done to Sherlock – and John almost wished that Moriarty was still alive so that he could rip him apart, he wanted to kill Bennett, make him bleed as much as Sherlock had.

“No,” Mycroft said, breaking his train of thoughts, “he took down a crime empire, on his own. We still don’t know how Bennett came to know what Moriarty said to Sherlock that day. But do not underestimate what Sherlock accomplished.”

 _Have you met me?_ John thought. Even if Mary hadn’t shot Sherlock, even if she hadn’t been an assassin, his marriage would have ended up exactly the same, because Sherlock was his _everything._ It had just taken him too long to make peace with that simple notion.

“I’m not.” John said between clenched teeth. “I never have.”

Mycroft nodded, apparently satisfied by his words. John noticed that a black car had approached, a moment later Anthea came out of it, carrying an umbrella. “I will come back later today.” Mycroft said, he seemed to search for the right words, which was unprecedented and caught John’s attention, eventually in a low voice added, “You are Sherlock’s pressure point, but you are also his greatest strength. Even now. Especially now, I think. Try to remember that.”

“Is this your way to tell me that if I break your brother’s heart you’ll make me disappear?” John said.

“I thought that was implicit, John.” Mycroft said, but he was smiling and, for once, it was a genuine smile.

He knew Mycroft was _not_ joking and that the light tone of his voice carried truth in it, nevertheless he smiled back. He shivered, but stayed outside, for a few more minutes, after Mycroft left, his eyes closed, willing his heart to calm down its frantic beating, only when he felt his emotions under control he went back inside the hospital, to Sherlock.

* * *

 

 

The first thing John saw when he opened his eyes was Sherlock; the consulting detective was looking at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. John shifted in his cot; it was next to Sherlock’s, they were at eye’s level; it was sort of ironic that he had fallen asleep while looking at Sherlock and the tables were now turned.

The consulting detective kept holding his gaze, an unreadable look in his eyes and John wondered how long he had been looking at him.

“Sorry.” John said in a low voice. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in confusion, John sat, he rubbed his eyes with his palms and said, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep…”

“Nonsense. You had been awake for almost two days.” Sherlock said; he tilted his head down, looking at his hands before saying, “You stayed.”

John blinked in surprise; of course he had stayed – where else would he be? He moved, and rested his hand on Sherlock’s bed, next to his right one; like the day before he was tempted to take Sherlock’s hand in his, but stopped when he saw the man’s fingers twitch.

He tilted his head up and looked at the man, he swallowed and said, “I told you I’m not leaving.”

“I remember what you said.” Sherlock said, “I expected you to go with Mary, though. It was only logical.”

John shook his head, and he couldn’t help a little smile; Sherlock seemed more like himself that morning, he was still pale, he still had dark smudges under his eyes, and he noticed the lines of pain around his mouth, but his eyes were alert, bright with his usual brilliance – except when he thought that he would leave his side.

“Why are you smiling?” Sherlock asked, but his voice was light and John saw his lips curling in a half smile.

“Because you are an idiot. Going with Mary was _not_ logical.” John said.

He wanted to touch Sherlock, but he had seen how his fingers had twitched just a few moments before, it had been a reaction to the nearness of his hand; neither had moved their hands on the bed, they were still close, Sherlock hadn’t moved his hand away, but John didn’t want to startle him, instead he chose to look at the man, who was tilting his head on a side, realization dawning in as he said, “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?” John asked.

“The pain is not uncomfortable – but I feel filthy.” Sherlock said looking down at his chest and arms. Sherlock had been cleaned up after being examined, but his torso was a mess of gauzes and iodine.

“I know, I’ll see what we can do later, okay?” John said.

Sherlock gave him a little smile before saying, “I take Mary didn’t take the news you would be staying here well?”

Sometimes he forgot that Sherlock could see _everything,_ but at his surprised look the man said, “You said her name in your sleep. It did not sound a particularly pleasant dream.”

There was an edge of annoyance in his voice and John couldn’t honestly tell whether it was jealousy or contempt toward Mary. He shrugged and asked, “What did I say?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then he said, “No, Mary, don’t.” He trailed for a moment and John could see hesitancy in his eyes, he looked down and added, “It’s not his fault.”

He didn’t remember having dreamed, which was unusual since he always remembered his dreams in vivid Technicolor; he had expected nightmares after what had happened, his body instead had just shut down. Of course, the downside of it was that Sherlock knew – and that was the last thing he had wanted.

“We had a chat, last night.” John admitted.

“That much I gathered, thank you John.” Sherlock said – and he really sounded like himself, which both infuriated and filled John with relief.

“I tried to do what you asked, Sherlock. But I couldn’t. I’m sorry – and she knew it. She has always known probably.”

“That’s the _sentiment_ part, John -” Sherlock said between clenched teeth, “I want to know what she did say to you.”

John knew better than taking offense at Sherlock’s words, even if a small part of him was hurt by the dismissive tone of his voice, Sherlock seemed to understand that, because he said, “I have not forgotten, John – not what happened _home_ or what we said in the cab, but I need to know what Mary told you.”

“Why?” John asked.

“Because she’s carrying your child and because I vowed that I would never underestimate her again.” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “She said, ‘Give Sherlock my love, and tell him we’re even now’ whatever that means.”

“It means what she said.” Sherlock said and John wished he could believe him. He really could, but he knew that Sherlock was an excellent liar when he wanted to – and Mary, well, she was the best bloody liar in London, better than Sherlock. He could only try and coax some truths out of Sherlock by telling him what he thought.

“I don’t think she’ll try to harm you.” John said, eventually.

“She shot me once, it would be redundant, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked.

“I – I think she’ll want to settle the score with me.” John said, ignoring the cavalier way Sherlock had talked about being shot.

Sherlock turned his head toward him, stiffly, and said, “She is not stupid, John. She knows that I would hunt her down to the ends of Earth if she harmed you. She knows what I am capable of when you are threatened.”

Sherlock had spoken matter-of-factly; but John felt breathless for a moment. He hadn’t said anything that he hadn’t shown before, with his actions, but to hear the words, somehow, made it all real.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked, “I will not apologise, though.”

John shook his head and, forgetting for a moment about their whereabouts and the reason why they were in the hospital, grabbed Sherlock’s hand; Sherlock stilled, blinking his eyes for a moment and John realized that, perhaps, Sherlock didn’t want to be touched. Not so soon, but Sherlock squeezed weakly back and didn’t let go.

“Mycroft talked to you last night as well, didn’t he?” Sherlock said after a moment of silence.

“Yep. He gave me his version of ‘break my brother’s heart and I’ll make you disappear’.” John said, realizing only too late what he had said.

In his haste not to tell Sherlock about the rest of the conversation he had had with Mycroft he had said the first thing that had popped up in his mind. The thing was that except for their words in the cab, what it felt like ages before, there had not been time or energy to talk about _them._ He didn’t even know what Sherlock wanted. All he knew was that he would not tell the rest of the conversation with Mycroft. There was no way in hell that Sherlock would get anywhere near Herman Bennett if he could help it.

Sherlock’s face didn’t betray any emotion and John, for a moment, thought about the day he had asked Sherlock to be his best man. It was the same kind of blank look he had sported that day.

 _Please, don’t see I’m lying. You didn’t see for years how much I was in love with you. Please don’t see the rest._ John thought.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock eventually said. The look on his face was almost comical, and John for a moment wanted to kiss him; he didn’t of course, and didn’t let go of his hand, but said, “You know your brother.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then he said, setting aside the subject of their relationship (and Mycroft’s nosiness), “I sincerely doubt that he took you outside to talk about this. About _us."_

“How…?” John started, “Never mind. Stupid question.”

Sherlock smiled for a moment, but his smile faded when he said, “What did he say?”

“I asked him about Bennett and Moriarty.” John said. That, too, was the truth.

“Bennett will want to talk to me.” Sherlock said, “He’ll want to taunt me and he will delude himself into thinking that he can play games with me.”

He should have known that Sherlock would deduce that. There were seven bodies unaccounted for. He honestly couldn’t remember the faces in the pictures, but it wasn’t a stretch of imagination to think that they would have Sherlock’s features.

“That’s not going to happen, Sherlock.” John said. And he meant it. Even without taking into account the emotional consequences of the eight hours spent with Bennett, Sherlock was recovering from surgery and what Bennett had done to him.

Sherlock studied him for a moment, but didn’t say anything for a few long seconds, before he whispered, “He has already started, hasn’t he?”

John nodded. There was no point in trying to deny the truth with Sherlock.

“He said he will only talk to you. That’s all I know.” John said.

“Oh, I see.” Sherlock said in a scathing tone of voice, “He thinks he has leverage. The seven bodies and Moriarty.”

“You are not seriously thinking about talking to him, are you?” John asked.

He was about to point out that Bennett had fucking tortured him for hours. He had – _fuck,_ he couldn’t even wrap his mind around all Bennett had done to Sherlock in 480 minutes, he couldn’t even voice his own thoughts and Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

“I am.” Sherlock said, “This does not mean I _will_ play his game, though. I got bored with his dullness somewhere during the second hour of our time together, John. The only interesting thing about him is his apparent connection to Jim Moriarty.”

Sherlock could have fooled him in the past. Up until a few days before he could have fooled him into thinking that he was unaffected by what had happened. Looking at him John realized that Sherlock _needed_ to look unaffected, slightly bored with Bennett and the game he wanted to play.

“Jim Moriarty is dead, Sherlock. The video feed trail lead nowhere.” John said.

“I know that – I was there when he killed himself, John; but one month after that video featuring Moriarty went viral, a serial killer with no criminal records, no known association to Moriarty according to Mycroft, deviated from his pattern and started targeting people of both sexes and did everything in his power to make sure I paid attention.” Sherlock’s chest heaved when he stopped talking. He looked paler now and angry, and John noticed that Sherlock hadn’t mentioned the fact that Bennett had carved up Moriarty’s name on his chest.

“I thought I had got them all; I thought I had plucked out each and every thread of his web.” Sherlock said, and John wasn’t sure he had ever heard Sherlock’s voice so filled with contempt – toward himself. Of all people!

“Oh no, don’t you dare, Sherlock!” John hissed, thinking about the scars on Sherlock’s back and the old ones he had glimpsed on his thighs, cigarette burns mostly, the previous night. Only then did he realize that he was still holding Sherlock’s hand, he only noticed because he followed Sherlock’s gaze, he didn’t look at him, he focused on their interlaced fingers while he said, “You sacrificed everything to stop Moriarty, he robbed you of two years of your life – don’t you dare doubting yourself. It’s not who you are, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s quiet words startled him, his voice was barely more than a whisper when he said, “I don’t know who I am any longer, John.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had thought he knew Sherlock’s silences: the stroppy ones, the ones that hid flashes of genius and danger, the quiet ones, in the months before he fell, where John had thought that he could live the rest of his life with that mad man and he would be happy, because life was good. Perfect.

Sherlock had refused to talk to a therapist. Not that John had expected anything different from him; truth be told he was not a fan of therapy himself, even if he knew that avoiding problems didn’t make them go away – and that was true both for Sherlock and for himself. The fact that Sherlock had been a bastard to the bloke, deducing him to the last detail, including the reason why he dealt with PTSD and sexual abuse mostly (“Playing the good Samaritan won’t save your sister or bring her back, _doctor._ It’s high time you accepted that!”) had been oddly comforting to John; even if he had felt a twinge of sympathy for the man, who had simply accepted Sherlock’s verbal attack, with his head cocked on a side, blinking once behind his glasses.

Nevertheless he had left his card on one of the chairs, had given him a polite nod of acknowledgement and had left the room. Perhaps it had been rubbish timing on Doctor Hood’s part, he had entered the room shortly after Greg had left after he took Sherlock’s official statement over what had happened in the basement – but John suspected that things wouldn’t have been different under any other circumstance, that was why when he saw the man, a hour later, in the canteen, he tried to avoid him, the man though spotted him as he was sitting at a table, staring at a half eaten sandwich as if it contained all the answers of the universe.

“Mind if I join you?” Doctor Hood asked; he was holding a tray, he looked even more tired than he had looked when he had knocked at Sherlock’s door one hour before, his clothes rumpled, his black hair, peppered with grey at the temples was sticking all over the place, as if he has run his hands through it repeatedly. The doctor sat in front of him at his affirmative nod and John cleared his throat, “About before…” He trailed.

The doctor waved a hand dismissively, while drinking his coffee and said, “It’s not the worst patients have told me and I was prepared for a tongue lashing.”

John looked at him: Sherlock’s presence in the hospital was causing all kind of whispers, even because of the media attention the murders and Alyce’s kidnapping had got, even though the media was mostly in the dark about what had happened to him; all they knew was that he had been instrumental in Bennett's capture, so he was not exactly surprised that the doctor seemed to know who Sherlock was, nevertheless he felt slivers of worry in his gut and it must have shown on his face, because the doctor said, “You are a doctor, you know how fast news travel in a hospital. I also read newspapers and watch telly, you know?”

“Sorry…” John said, “It’s been a long day.” _More like almost three years. But who is counting?_ He thought.

“How are you, doctor Watson?” The man asked.

“Me? I’m fine – _fine.”_ John replied nodding his head for emphasis, unaware, at first, that he was doing so.

The man was looking at him while drinking his coffee. “You look tired.” He said after a moment. John sighed. “Doctor Hood…” He said.

He really did not want to talk to a therapist. He wanted to – stare at his food like he had done until that moment and cool off before he could go back to Sherlock.

“David.” The man said, his tone of voice calm, soothing.

“Please don’t do this. I said I’m fine. I’m _not…”_

“What?” Doctor Hood, David, asked, “Angry? Tired, worried? You’re not the victim?”

“He is not…” John said between clenched teeth, “I’m not …” John let out a breath and shook his head, not finishing his sentence. Weren’t therapists supposed to tiptoe around the issues until one was more or less willing to talk?

“No, but someone you hold dear just went through a traumatic experience. This is bound to have consequences on you. You might feel anger, fear – and those feelings are not going to go away on their own, Doctor Watson.”

“Can we not?” John asked, “I know you mean well, but this is really not what I need right now.”

“What do you need?” David asked.

John let out a laugh, it came out chocked, but he didn’t notice it, “You really don’t give up, do you?” He said.

David was looking at him, “We’re just chatting, Doctor Watson.” He said.

“Right – what do I need?” He said, he let out a breath and was surprised when the words just stumbled out of his mouth, “I’d settle for understanding what goes through his mind right now.”

“Is that why you looked relieved when he lashed out at me?” David asked, he took another sip from his mug.

John nodded curtly. He did not want to talk to that man. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened and how it made him feel and all the _things_ psychotherapists wanted to talk about. It was hard as it was to just breath in certain moments, he could not – talk. Not yet. He needed to be there for Sherlock.

“It was familiar.” David continued.

“Yes.” John said. “He’s like that sometimes. Well, often enough.”

“But he hasn’t acted like that here?” David gently prodded.

John gave him a warning glance. Couldn’t the bloke just get a clue and leave it alone?

“Mr. Holmes is an extremely intelligent man.” David said.

“Yes, yes, you could say that.” John said. He should get up and leave. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone for too long. He had had his eyes closed when he had left the room, his breathing suggesting that he was asleep, but with Sherlock one couldn’t be too sure.

“Some say he’s a genius.” David continued, “Of course some also say that he’s a psychopath.”

“He’s not. He’s…” John looked at the man: there was empathy in those brown eyes, concern, “Someone once told me that he is a great man and that if we were lucky he would become a good man. That’s what he is. He’s a good man..even if he’d disagree with me on this.”

 

Doctor Hood smiled at that, “If he were a psychopath what happened to him wouldn’t be cause of concern, would it? It could not hurt him.”

“Yeah – and I really need to go, David.” John said. He felt like he was betraying Sherlock’s trust by indulging that man. He felt like he could burst, start talking and be hollowed out – and how could he be there for Sherlock if he did?

“But he’s not, as you said, a psychopath. He’s a good man – who doesn’t want people to know he is?”

John who had got up, sat again, “What happened to Sherlock …”

“It has a name, more than one. Have you addressed what happened, at all?” The man asked.

John paused. He had been there when Sherlock had been examined. He had not been there when he had given both statements to the police (Greg had talked about procedure, and Sherlock, for once, had _not_ objected), but he had been with him later, when he had talked to the doctors.

“He was there and I was with him when he was examined.” John said.

“The answer is no, then.” David said.

“Sherlock hates to point out the obvious.” John said icily. They knew what happened, they didn’t need to say the words. It’d be redundant . And if it wasn’t healthy, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not at that point.

David nodded, “I see. Sorry for keeping you, Doctor Watson.”

John closed his eyes for a moment. God, he was so tired – he felt like he hadn’t really slept for years and he knew things were not going to get any easier. “David – I appreciate what you want to do, but I can’t. It’s complicated…” John said.

He noticed that the doctor was looking at his left hand; he was still wearing his wedding ring. Shit, he had completely forgot about _that!_

“You know? Mr. Holmes got one thing wrong about me.” He said when John made no further attempt to talk.

“Did he?” John asked, curiosity in his voice.

“I accepted that I couldn’t bring my sister back or save her a long time ago. My job is helping the _survivors_ and their loved ones; I can mourn her in my own free time.” He rummaged in the pockets of his jacket and handed him his card, and smiled at him, “Take it, just in case.”

John took the card with a sigh, noticing that the doctor was still looking at his left hand; he didn’t say anything, for which John was grateful, even if he rationally knew that what happened between Mary and he was no one’s bloody business but his own.

“I really must go.” John said. He didn’t comment on the doctor’s words, but he stuck his card a pocket of his jeans and gave him a curt nod.

When he got back to Sherlock’s room, a few minutes later, he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.

* * *

 

 

 The quiet lasted exactly forty eight hours. In fact, the silence had become almost deafening, almost a prelude, John would think later, of things to come. Quiet didn’t mean things had started to be better.

In fact, before the apple and the envelope on Sherlock’s bedside table, before the news on the telly, John had started to be scared of the silence. Of Sherlock’s silences. John had thought he knew Sherlock’s silences: the stroppy ones, the ones that hid flashes of genius and danger, the quiet ones, in the months before he _fell,_ where John had thought that he could live the rest of his life with that mad man and he would be happy, because life was good. Perfect.

Those silences were different, they were hollow – Sherlock seemed _hollow._ And John had surprised himself hoping, wishing that Sherlock was just pretending; pretending to be a model patient, who didn’t run nurses and doctors away with his deductions, who answered honestly to each and every question he was asked about his prognosis with a soft voice and indifference in his eyes. He found himself hoping that he was thinking about daring escapes, brilliant and dangerous plans.

And then… And then _facts_ hit John, making his heart hammer against his ribcage: Sherlock was not watching telly, he hadn’t asked to read newspapers, he had not asked Greg or even Mycroft about Bennett.

Facts.

Sherlock wasn't using his mobile phone; it sat, turned off, in the drawer of his bedside table, still wrapped in the evidence bag. Greg had given it to him, John didn’t even remember who had found it or when. Sherlock didn’t care. He hadn’t even sent him home to fetch his laptop.

Facts.

He pretended to sleep.

Facts.

He hadn’t said he wanted to leave the hospital. Not once.

Facts.

He accepted his help to walk around in the hospital room after both the catheter and the post-surgery drainage had been removed, but went to the bathroom alone, not a hint of his usual self when he had gently reminded John, the first time he had offered, that he had stopped needing assistance in the bathroom when he was a toddler.

Facts.

He tolerated Mycroft’s presence.

Before, though, before the news on the telly, before Greg had come to tell them about Joan Adams and William Moore - but after, one day after he had taken Sherlock’s official statement about what had happened in the basement and Sherlock had not wanted him there, in the room, even if John _knew,_ even if he hadn’t left Sherlock’s side ever since he had entered Bennett’s house, there had been long stretches of silences and words said in the wrong tone of voice: soft when it should have been harsh, genuinely inquisitive when it should have been derisive.

Before the apple and the note – but _after_ Sherlock had talked to a plastic surgeon about the scars _(marks,_ Bennett had marked him. Like he was an object, like he was cattle.) on his torso, there had been Sherlock’s right hand kept under scalding water in the bathroom’s sink, red blisters on his delicate skin and Sherlock’s silence, his refusal to explain, his indifference when he (not a nurse. John was a doctor, and for fuck’s sake they had to stay the fuck away from Sherlock!) had fixed his hand.

“I could kill for a decent cup of coffee.” Sherlock had said, after.

Facts.

John had brought Sherlock coffee but only after he had stopped shaking, closed in a bathroom stall, on another floor, trying to breath past the scream that had struck in his throat, forcing him to close his eyes, to try and not let it out, scream until he was hoarse, until he could think again properly. Facts. Sherlock was pretending to sleep when he came back with his cup of coffee.

He knew he was pretending because Sherlock didn’t even bother being convincing. He just kept his eyes closed, his right hand wrapped in a new shiny bandage, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Facts. When the respite, the calm ended, starting with the apple and the note on Sherlock’s bedside table, for once it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault – and John had no idea what his (everything) friend would do.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was of course the first to notice that something was out of place in the room, even before they noticed the red apple and the bright yellow envelope on Sherlock’s bedside table.

Hours later John was reasonably sure that the two operatives assigned to Sherlock’s surveillance would end their careers scrubbing toilets in the arse end of the world – if they were lucky, at least judging by the icy glares Mycroft was throwing at them.

Not that they deserved any less.

They had left the room for one hour, for another talk with the plastic surgeon. The woman had taken a look at the scars, all the scars on Sherlock’s body, but Sherlock had consulted her only about the ones on his torso: _Moriarty’s_ , carved with a razor, it had taken Bennett almost a hour to carve Moriarty’s name on Sherlock’s torso, while he had been chained up to that rack, but first he had been repeatedly stunned with an electric cattle prod.

He knew that because he had been there when Sherlock had told Lestrade (that was the last thing he had said before Greg had sent him away and Sherlock had not objected.). He knew because he had been there during the medical examination and he had also read the medical chart, after. Sherlock had _never_ told him directly, though. He still behaved with him as if it was _nothing._

John had vowed he would rip Herman Bennett to shreds, after the plastic surgeon had looked at Sherlock’s scars and the younger man had ignored the look of horror (and pity) in her eyes, he had also accepted a pile of brochures with a polite nod of his head.

Now, hours later, after Sherlock had pointed out at the apple and the envelope; after John had called the two men outside and had texted Mycroft and Lestrade, after Sherlock had been moved into an even more private room, his old room checked throughout, after the envelope and the apple had been x-rayed and examined, and both Mycroft’s people and yarders had checked video surveillance and interrogated everyone in the hospital, they were in the hallway outside Sherlock’s new room.

Greg was with Sherlock on official capacity, for a few follow up questions, despite the two statements, the pictures and the medical chart, despite the fact that they had Bennett in custody, and despite Mycroft’s involvement. It had been Greg who had wanted to talk to Sherlock alone and, once again, Sherlock had not objected. He rarely had objected to pretty much anything for the past couple of days, John thought.

Sherlock hadn’t even looked at him while Greg had asked him to wait outside, he had stared at the wall in front of him, a blank look on his face; it had been Greg who had smiled at him apologetically and said, “It won’t take long.” John desperately wanted to believe that he was asking for Sherlock’s help with something, anything and that the follow up questions were just an excuse.

Two new operatives were already outside Sherlock’s room, they had a list (which he was sure they had already memorized) of the people allowed into the room and, no doubts, they were aware of the fact that Mycroft Holmes was cross. “That will be all.” Mycroft said to the other operatives.

Yes, John thought, Mycroft was _very_ cross. The two soon to be former operatives left and John wondered whether they were MI5 or MI6

“He might want to leave the hospital now.” Mycroft said and there was a hint of weariness in his voice. Sherlock had already refused – and had been remarkably civil to Mycroft about it – to be moved to a safer facility, deeming it unnecessary, but John knew Mycroft was right. God, part of him _hoped_ Mycroft was right, because that was what Sherlock would usually do.

“There is a message in that envelope, isn’t there?” John asked.

Mycroft nodded. He was looking at the closed door behind which Sherlock and Lestrade were talking. “An invite to play and an incentive to join.” He eventually said.

Mycroft didn’t show him the note, and John wondered whether he would lie to Sherlock, whether he was going to tell him that the note had been destroyed. He honestly didn’t know what to hope for. And, for a moment, he was sure Mycroft was thinking the same. He could _not_ have missed how Sherlock was behaving.

“He can’t leave the hospital, yet.” John said. “Its too soon.” It was the doctor talking – a few more days in the hospital would only help Sherlock; he did not mention that, regardless of the incentive for playing, Sherlock might decide not to. He had said he had got bored with Bennett and that had been the last time he had talked to him about the man.

“It never stopped him before.” Mycroft said. He turned to look at him, “Especially when you were in immediate danger. ”

John thrust his chin up. If Mycroft wanted to make him feel guilty about what happened after Mary had shot Sherlock, he was too late, but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction to deduce it. Or, at least, he wasn’t going to admit it.

“Keeping you safe is his priority. Even now.” Mycroft said. He was looking again at the closed door, the two agents were at its side, still like statues. John frowned, confused by the man’s words: was he implying that he was somehow in danger? Not that he cared in the least; he only wished that the bloody brothers Holmes would get into their skulls that he could defend himself. He could take care of himself.

 _Evidence would suggest otherwise_. He could hear Sherlock saying. Mycroft was looking at the door, now, ignoring him while he said, “He might want to engage Bennett.”

John frowned: had Mycroft observed Sherlock at all for the past few days? How could he not see that Sherlock was –

What. What was Sherlock? He looked at Mycroft, and was close to plead him to understand or help _him_  to understand when Greg got out of the room, looking paler than when he had smiled at him apologetically before he had asked him to leave Sherlock’s room. He saw Mycroft and Greg exchanging a look, silent understanding passing between the two men; he didn’t like the look on Greg’s face or the way Mycroft’s lips pursed for a moment.

“I’m going in.” John said.

He hated the silence between the two men, he hated that he could read the silence between them and it was filled with all the things that had happened for the past few days. He hated the fact that they were all tiptoeing around Sherlock, treating him like china and that Sherlock was allowing them to by not talking unless it was absolutely necessary, by pretending to sleep when he bloody well knew that he wasn’t, by being soft spoken and distant – in a way that he had never been, not with him at least.

He was scared, he didn’t think he could be more scared than during the eight hours Sherlock had been in Bennett’s hands, but he had been wrong. He didn’t wait for either man to talk, he steeled himself and got inside Sherlock’s room; half hoping to find him up and about, trying to get dressed to leave the hospital, he was almost disappointed when he saw him in his bed, quietly reading his medical chart, while another open folder was on his legs.

“Oh, John,” He said casually, without looking up from his chart, “I take my brother is still outside?”

“Yes, he is – ” John started, but Sherlock interrupted him saying, “Deciding on the best course of action regarding Herman Bennett, of course. How predictable.”

He closed the folder on his legs and placed the medical chart on it. He didn’t talk. He didn’t make any scathing comment on Mycroft and his overbearing presence and his nosiness. Sherlock complaining about Mycroft and their ever ending childish feud was one constant of their lives; the two siblings fought (Sherlock did, mostly.), they tried to outsmart each other, but they worked together, understanding each other in ways no one else could. To see Sherlock so accepting of Mycroft’s interference was terrifying.

“They got into your room, Sherlock.” John said.

And it didn’t matter that, apparently, it had been a honest mistake from a young nurse, who had accepted to leave a gift from a young woman, one _Rachel Wilson_ , who had claimed to be Sherlock’s girlfriend. The young nurse, who had just come back from her maternity leave, despite all the whispers and gossip, hadn’t known a thing about what had happened to Sherlock; the poor woman had been mortified when she had known that she had been an unwitting accomplice in a threat to Sherlock.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; he didn’t seem scared but that wasn’t surprising or unusual, what surprised John was that Sherlock hadn’t even asked about the note.

“Yes, and Mycroft believes that withholding information will make things better, somehow.” He shook his head, there was genuine disappointment in his voice.

“He is trying to protect you…” John said, realizing that it had been the wrong thing to say the second the words had left his mouth.

He didn’t expect the bitter smile that crept on Sherlock’s lips, he had almost hoped for a tsunami of scathing words, a childish tantrum, he did not expect Sherlock’s soft tone of voice when he said, “Ah, of course! I’m a _victim,_ now; I need to be shielded and protected!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know that!” John said – but was Sherlock wrong, really? He hadn’t meant what Sherlock had inferred from his words, but wasn’t that the truth? Hadn’t he just thought that they had all been tiptoeing around Sherlock?

Sherlock scoffed, he could see he was in pain, but apparently he had decided to forego his selective mutism. And John was grateful, even when his tone didn't became cutting, harsh, as one would expect from him, when he said, “Is it not? Then Bennett must have broken me, as you all fear, because that’s what I see when I look at Lestrade, my brother and you.” He looked at him, and John knew that look; Sherlock was studying him, was deducing him, yet his voice was low when he asked, “Tell me, John – did Bennett break me?”

 _You fell._ John thought, images of the past year and half collecting in his mind. _You fell and no one was there to pick up the pieces. You ran away. You were tortured and Bennett changed you_. John shook his head and said, “We are concerned. You can’t blame us for this.”

He thought about Greg who still looked exhausted, eyes red rimmed with lack of sleep, looking pale as he got out from that very room after talking to Sherlock . He thought about Mycroft, whose grip on the handle of his ever present umbrella had been tight outside that room, who looked less put together than usual – he thought about the rage he still felt, the outrage whenever a doctor got into the room and checked on Sherlock, how he had wanted to shout and hit something while Sherlock and the plastic surgeon had talked; he thought about HIV tests, and all the pills Sherlock was obediently taking to prevent HIV and venereal diseases.

His mind went blank whenever he got too close to the words, the two words (or one, they were synonyms after all) and breathing became hard. He thought about the ninety two stitches on Sherlock’s body (torso, back, arms, inner thighs), and the rage took his breath away, for a moment.

Yes. He wanted to protect Sherlock. Yes, he wanted to shield him from that game Bennett (or whoever he was working with) craved to play with him.

“That doesn't answer my question, John.” Sherlock said. His voice was laced with pain, but it was soft.

John shook his head. He couldn’t deal with Sherlock’s question, not while he was using that tone of voice, so unlike him, just like the politeness and quiet he had been showing for days.

Sherlock’s lips thinned in a line. “I see.” He said.

“No, you really don’t.” John said.

He wanted to say more, he wanted to tell Sherlock that he could not expect the people who loved him to stand by idly and do nothing while a psychopath wanted to play games with him. Not that time. He wanted to tell Sherlock that despite what he had wanted to make people believe for so long, he was completely human and that icy veneer of calm and politeness was going to shatter sooner or later.

He wanted to tell Sherlock that he wished he could understand what the fuck was going on inside his mind, because when he shut him out like that, bad things happened. Bloody things. Things that tore both of them apart.

He didn’t have the chance to say any of those things, because Mycroft chose that moment to enter the room and John saw Sherlock’s posture stiffen; the two siblings, glared at each other for a few long seconds, then Mycroft sat on a chair next to the wall in front of Sherlock’s bed.

“I take it you want to read the note in the envelope.” Mycroft said. No small talk. No pleasantries. Sometimes John envied how well Mycroft could read Sherlock’s moods. Whether he chose to indulge him or not was another matter; John still had no clue whether he would that time.

“Oh, do you mean I am allowed to read it?” Sherlock asked. His words were meant to be sarcastic, by the tone of his voice was all wrong, like a bad impression.

He didn’t need to look at Mycroft to know that the older man had noticed as well. Mycroft chose to ignore his brother’s words and didn’t move, there was a moment of silence until Sherlock said, “Should I get up and take the note myself, brother?”

John looked at Mycroft; he was smiling his best obnoxious smile, the one that usually tempted John into decking him. He had always refrained from acting on that impulse, until that moment.

What the fuck was he doing? Yes, Sherlock could stand and walk around, for short periods of time, it was actually good for him, but he could not overdo things. Mycroft knew that, yet he was smiling at his brother, challenging him with his eyes.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and his medical chart and the folder ended up on the floor when he threw the hospital blanket aside. John got up from his chair, but he might very well have been on Mars; the two men were looking at each other, challenging each other with their eyes. Sherlock had already walked that day, more than he should have, he was running a bloody _fever_ for having moved too much and John could see the lines of pain etched around his mouth.

Yet he knew he would get up and, considering how jerky his movements were, he would risk pulling stitches and John was frankly dead tired of seeing Sherlock bleeding or hurting. And maybe Mycroft was tired of it too, because he got up from his chair, he walked the few steps, two or three at most, that separated him from his brother, he stood in front of him for a second – the two men looked at each other, busy with a silent conversation John didn’t even try to understand - then Mycroft sat next to Sherlock on the bed.

He had seen the two brothers fight, he had seen them stare at each other, but he wasn’t sure about what he had just seen. He wasn’t even sure they knew or cared he was still in the room, looking at them.

Mycroft silently handed Sherlock the note and John moved a step, his military instinct on red alert.

“Oh.” Sherlock only said.

“What?” John said.

Sherlock looked at him – and incredibly enough the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth had faded and John wondered whether he was aware that his body was leaning toward his brother’s. “

What does the note say?” John asked.

Sherlock handed him the elegant rectangle of paper and John could finally take a look at it.

_1,2,3,4,5,6,7_

_. ∞_

_Oryhob lpdjhv, duhqw wkhb_

_Vhh brx Wrpruurz Vkhuorfn. Orrnlqj iruzdug wr lw_

_Sv: gr zdwfk wkh whoob_

He started when Sherlock scoffed and muttered under his breath, “They could at least try and not insult my intelligence.”

John knew it was a ciphered message, but judging by Sherlock’s words, it must not have been meant to be an enigma for Sherlock – or Mycroft. Nevertheless he said, “What does the note say?”

Sherlock waved a hand, not bothering to answer him, but he knew what he would say next, he knew it from the set of his shoulders and the look in his eyes. “I’m leaving the hospital tomorrow.” Sherlock said, looking at his brother and for once there wasn’t resentment in him, his voice was remarkably lacking its usual edge when he said, “Tell Lestrade that I’ll need to see the house before visiting Bennett. Might do again after. The less annoying officers the better.”

“Will you? I didn’t think you cared about the other victims.” Mycroft said.

“I don’t. They are dead.” Sherlock said, “And I don’t care about the next one either.”

“Next one?” John said. He had moved closer to the bed, without even realizing it.

“Yes, John. A new kidnapping. It’s clearly inferred in the note. I hope you won’t start to question me now, of all times!”

“Of course not, but how –” John trailed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving Mycroft, “It will be in the news soon.”

Mycroft didn’t seem surprised by Sherlock’s words. But then again, he had just taken a look at the ciphered message; he supposed it was child’s play for both Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock was still looking at his brother and his voice dropped when he said, “And I’ll need the pictures as well, Mycroft.”

“He sent you pictures?” John said and he didn’t care if he sounded like a perfect idiot. He _wanted_ Sherlock to tell him that he was an idiot and to keep up.

He wanted Sherlock to be _brilliant_ and give him an explanation, a deduction, but Sherlock didn’t want to show off, he sighed and said, “Yes there are pictures, it’s in the note: the man who wrote it used the Caesar cipher. The pictures, Mycroft!”

He sounded almost offended at the use of such a simple code and John thought that he shouldn’t feel almost dizzy with relief at hearing Sherlock being – well, _himself,_ but he couldn’t help it. His relief was short lived when he registered the words Sherlock had spoken, when he thought about what kind of pictures Bennett’s accomplices (because it was obvious he had them, it didn’t take a genius to understand _that!)_  might have sent him.

John blinked his eyes owlishly. He had seen the envelope, too thick and too bloody large to contain just that note. He had seen the pictures in Bennett’s house, he had heard (but not really listened, because he hadn’t _cared,_ because all he cared about was Sherlock) about how they were still searching Bennett’s house to try and find out who the other victims were and where they had been buried.

He knew what they had found so far: objects belonging to the known victims, trophies – and pictures. A lot of pictures, apparently. Pictures of the twelve people Bennett had killed and, possibly, of Sherlock.

He shot a look at Mycroft, who was holding his brother’s gaze, apparently unconcerned with his request. Did Mycroft realize that Sherlock was almost unconsciously leaning toward him? Did he notice that their shoulders were ever so slightly brushing and that Sherlock looked _almost_ like his usual self? Did he know that his brother had blisters on his right hand, the same one he had shattered a mirror with? Did he know why?

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “Those photographs are merely –”

“I know _exactly_ what they are, Mycroft.” Sherlock hissed.

“Sherlock –” John started, hating the way Sherlock was scratching each word, because suddenly he was sure, positive that seeing those pictures was a terrible idea. Because whoever had sent those pictures must know that Sherlock was truly, genuinely indifferent to those people’s deaths. It didn’t matter how gruesome the images could be, Sherlock would not be convinced, _unless...unless_ the photographs didn’t portray the victims.

He wanted to say something, anything to squash that feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, but stopped when, for one of those weird, creepy circumstances that made up John’s life with the Holmeses, Anthea knocked at the door and entered the room; she gave a polite nod of her head to both Sherlock and he, and handed Mycroft the yellow envelope they had found on Sherlock’s bedside table. John didn’t want to consider the alternatives – whether Mycroft had known how long it would take for Sherlock to ask for the photographs or, worse, the room was bugged. He really, really didn’t want to think about all of that.

Mycroft held the bright, yellow envelope in his hands for a moment as he got up from the bed. He spared a brief glance at John before giving the envelope to Sherlock, without saying a word, and John didn’t want to see the pictures. He wanted Sherlock to ignore the content of that envelope.

Let Scotland Yard and Mycroft deal with that mess; he had caught the serial killer, he had paid his dues.

John hadn’t noticed Sherlock had looked at him and that, as always, he had been an open book to him, until the man said, “I doubt those photographs will feature the victims. And I reckon they weren’t taken during my time with Bennett. They know I don’t need a visual reminder. Am I wrong, Mycroft?”

“No, not as such.” Mycroft said and John wasn’t relieved by the men’s words, because those people wouldn’t have sent those pictures with that apple if not to try and fuck with Sherlock.

It wasn’t pictures of Herman Bennett’s victims and it wasn’t pictures of Sherlock in the man’s basement, either. But he had been right about something: those pictures _were_ meant to fuck with Sherlock. Each and every picture had been taken within the last eighteen months, they all featured Sherlock and he: at crime scenes, outside Sherlock’s flat, they were talking, laughing – he could not even recognize when or where some of those pictures had been taken, but he definitely recognized when and where the last few had been taken; one had been taken on the way back from the crime scene of Bennett’s fifth known victim (Jason Miller, John corrected himself. He had been a good kid, he thought, he didn’t deserve to be thought of as “Bennett’s fifth known victim”), he was looking at Sherlock in that grainy picture, it was the only photograph, so far, where Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, John noticed.

He couldn’t help a surprised gasp when he saw the second to last picture – it was a screenshot, taken from a surveillance tape, apparently; Sherlock and he were kissing. He blinked at the image in front of him, recalling for a moment the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his, of their bodies close – had it really happened mere days before? And someone had recorded that moment, someone had watched _them._ Just like someone had watched when Sherlock had been brought to the hospital and John didn’t remember Sherlock holding on his coat’s sleeve with his fingers.

He hadn’t even noticed that Sherlock had been looking at him – there were still moments, after they had got out from Bennett’s house – that were a blur to John, a red haze of anger and worry; Sherlock looked young and exhausted in that single picture, yet the way he was looking at him threatened to do what that photograph of them kissing hadn’t; it threatened to make him hurl the stack of pictures on the floor, away from Sherlock – it was too intimate, too filled with _sentiment,_ with the words Sherlock and he had exchanged in that cab and that short, scorching kiss they had shared before things had gone so spectacularly wrong.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft’s faces were unreadable when John looked at them, Sherlock put the photographs back in the envelope; he hadn’t reacted to any of the photographs, he wasn’t even looking at him, a deep frown of concentration marring his brow.

“The bugs in your flat have been found and disposed of already.” Mycroft said.

“How comforting.” Sherlock said.

John could see that he was thinking hard, but there was weariness in the set of his shoulders.

“Some of them hadn't been in place for a long time.” Mycroft said.

“You would know.” Sherlock said drily, but there wasn’t any heat behind his words.

“Precisely.” Mycroft replied with a smile.

Sherlock’s left hand was on the envelope, he talked slowly, more to himself than to them, John realized, when he said, “I had assumed it was your people.”

“You knew?” John asked.

“Of course I knew.” Sherlock said. He sneered, “Here I was thinking that your people had become marginally less incompetent since my return.”

Mycroft didn’t dignify Sherlock with an answer, but said, “Those pictures –”

“Are obviously meant to serve a double purpose, shall we avoid to point out the obvious?” Sherlock spat and John was irrationally glad for the scathing tone of his voice, it was a welcome change.

He wasn’t sure what purposes those pictures served, except showing that he was Sherlock’s pressure point, though.

“I suppose that appealing to common sense will fall on deaf ears.” Mycroft said.

And John thought that one day feeling like he had just skipped big chunks of dialogues between the two men, even if he had been right there with them, would not annoy him so much.

Sherlock ignored Mycroft’s words, he looked at John and said, “I need you to do something for me. I need you to go home and bring me some things. I’ll text you the list.”

He eyed Mycroft who huffed a breath and said, “Come along, John ...”

John hesitated for a moment; he looked at Sherlock, who was still sitting on the bed, whose left hand was still above the yellow envelope. John hadn’t left the hospital since Sherlock had been brought in; Mrs. Hudson had brought him some of the spare clothes he kept at Baker Street, telling him that Mary had brought his stuff there – and he had only half listened to her words about it. And Sherlock hadn’t objected to his presence in the hospital but he hadn’t taken it for granted, either. He knew the difference with him.

He knew that he had fallen asleep looking at Sherlock – and had woken up with Sherlock, looking at him and the silences between them had been warm, so unlike those Sherlock was engaging in and that were scaring John. He still hadn’t moved, resisting the urge to help Sherlock lie on the bed – he saw the man manoeuvring himself into a comfortable position on his side, while never stopping looking at him.

Sherlock was studying him and, for once, the look in his eyes was so _him,_ that John couldn’t help the little smile that tugged at his lips.

“Fine.” He said. He didn’t fuss with Sherlock’s blanket, he did not touch him, he did not tell him that he would be back soon. He did not tell him to be careful. He didn’t even tell him not to even _think_ about trying to run away to meet one of Bennett’s accomplices, based on some clue in the note only he could see– somehow he felt he wouldn’t. Not that time.

He didn’t want Sherlock to be anywhere near Herman Bennett; if anything he wanted Bennett to choke on his own blood, possibly after he was done with him! He didn’t want Sherlock to be _forced_ to play any game.

He knew when Sherlock needed to be alone, though. He knew when he needed time to think. For a moment he thought that perhaps that was a way Mycroft and Sherlock had concocted to keep him out of harm’s way – keep him safe. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

Sherlock, once again, saw right through him, though; he rolled his eyes and said, “Clothes, John! My laptop, the battery charger for my mobile phone.” He saw Sherlock and Mycroft exchange a long look, one whose meaning he didn’t even bother to try and guess. He sighed and said, “All right.”

“I want the other picture.” Sherlock said, turning to look at his brother.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you –” Mycroft started.

“Yes, you do. I want it.” Sherlock said.

He didn’t sound petulant, or despondent as he often did with Mycroft – he sounded exhausted. And Mycroft did too for a moment, nevertheless the older man gave him a tight lipped smile and said, “If you’ll be so kind as to wait outside for a moment, John? I’ll be right there.”

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly at him and John did the same. For a moment he was sure Sherlock wanted to say something, maybe reassure him – but he didn’t; he kept his left hand on the envelope, he was at the door when he heard Sherlock say something in a voice so low that he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

John chose not to hear the rest of the conversation, he didn’t even want to know about the pictures Sherlock had asked Mycroft about. He only needed time. He needed time to come to grasps with the idea that Sherlock and he had been spied on for _months._

He thought about Herman Bennett who had lured Sherlock in and had carved Moriarty’s name on his chest – had he been one of the people who had spied on them? Had Bennett (not Moriarty. Moriarty was _dead,_ he had blown his head off. Moriarty could _not_ be still alive) watched Sherlock and he kiss?

Had he listened to what Sherlock had told him in the flat?

He needed time. He thought, he needed time to find a way not to let those people use _him_ to get to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: first of all, sorry so so so sorry for the long delay, teaching training keeps me out of the house for about 14 hours everyday. I'm still writing, though:)   
> Second of all: thank you to everyone who commented, bookmarked and left kudos to the previous chapters, they mean the world to me, especially because English is not my language and I'm flying solo (no beta reader, no brit picker)  
> Third: that's the content of the note Sherlock has gotten:
> 
> Lovely images, aren’t they?  
>  See you Tomorrow, Sherlock. Looking forward to it  
>  Ps: do watch the telly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If John had looked at one particular photograph, he would have seen a man sitting on a couch, his elbows on his knees, a bare wall behind him. He would have recognized, perhaps, that the man in the photograph, Sherlock, had been still wearing that god awful suit they had chosen for his nuptials.

_The missing Picture_

 

They said a picture was worth a thousand words. Sherlock had always thought it was a ludicrous idea. A picture didn’t tell the whole story; a picture was just a moment, not even a second in time, barely more than a heartbeat captured, without context, without a broader angle.

Nevertheless pictures could be useful, he was aware of that. He could tell a lot from single snapshot, of course; he could tell that the first unknown victim (female, late twenties, placed on the second row on the wall in Bennett’s smallroom, had been the first one killed: clerk, left handed, dog lover, smoker, lesbian) had been killed quickly, the picture had been mostly for show, meant to be found and seen. He could say that the picture had been taken in a warehouse and he could say exactly where she had been killed, but – he did _not_ know everything.

Anyone else who would look at any picture, any photograph, would only see images, moments taken out of contexts, seconds frozen in time. But they did not tell the whole story.

If John had looked at one particular photograph, he would have seen a man sitting on a couch, his elbows on his knees, a bare wall behind him. He would have recognized, perhaps, that the man in the photograph, Sherlock, had been still wearing that god awful suit they had chosen for his nuptials. If John had really paid attention, and Sherlock knew he would, he would have noticed the mess littering the floor and the coffee table: crumpled papers at his feet, torn sheets on the coffee table and on the couch.

If John had been in sparkling form he would have, perhaps, noticed that Sherlock’s coat and tie could be seen in the picture, lying in a puddle on the floor, right beside the door. John wouldn’t, couldn’t, however, know – because that picture, that screenshot of a fraction of a second, among millions, taken on a specific evening (John’s wedding, the night he lost him, the night he had never felt more alone in his life, so alone that when Janine had called, eager and driven, he had had to sit still not to go to her and fuck her, because that kind of loneliness, that pain burnt like acid in his veins and made him want to lose himself, had made him want to take and take and take until he could think again, exist again and it wasn’t even supposed to hurt so much, was it? Until it did and Sherlock had needed Janine, sometimes, had really needed her because the silence and the loneliness burned him down to his core and caring was not an advantage and he did not care about her, he did not, she was just convenient.) did not tell the whole story.

How could it? It would take him or Mycroft to know – to understand, to really see.

Mycroft had hidden that photograph, in a show of brotherly concern that had almost moved Sherlock. Mycroft, of course, must have known – and there was no point for John to see that particular image anyway. Sherlock supposed that his older brother had been tempted to hid the others photographs as well, since each and every shot was part of a story, it had been taken in particular moment in time, it had been chosen with care, it had been sent with a purpose.

In the end he hadn’t, not because of seven bodies and the new abductee, but for the story – for the intent behind those pictures, and its connection to Jim Moriarty. John had been upset. Of course he had. John had seen – but he had not observed, not really. He did not blame John, though; he didn’t know – he could not know. There was a pattern, one crystal clear in those pictures.

_I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you._

_Not with a bang, but with a whimper_. Sherlock didn’t remember who had said that. He had deleted it, but for some reason those words echoed in his mind as he looked at the pictures in front of him: John and he coming back from the tube under Westminster; John had forgiven him, but he had kissed Mary, mere seconds after one of those pictures had been taken.

A crime scene, John had smelled like Mary, like her shampoo, blonde hair on his coat, a hickey on his neck, hidden by a scarf. A restaurant, John had been laughing, but his mobile phone had been on the table, his fingers grazing it, waiting for her call, for a message.

_Not with a bang, but with a whimper._

An empty room, one cup in the sink, silence – heavy, deafening in the flat. Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; days, weeks and months – and a few images, snapshots, moments frozen in time of his heart being ripped out of his chest and burnt out, until he realized it, with a _whimper._

Until the darkness of Baker Street had been just a tad too dark, and the silence a tad too heavy and his coat had fallen on the floor...

_Between the desire And the spasm_

...and he had moved, hadn’t he? He had looked at the whole flat, glimpsing John in every empty space, in every particle and he had unknotted his tie and it had joined his coat with a soft noise that had grated on Sherlock’s nerves and he had moved, moved, moved. He had pushed John’s chair, pushed it into his bedroom, feeling drunk even if he had been sober (cocaine would come _later,_ for a case, he would say, but it was a feeble lie, one he would almost feel shame for, because he had always owned his vice, his _addiction_ – but a white lie was better than the truth, wasn’t it?) images, snapshots (and the irony would not be lost on him, in that hospital bed, while his torso itched with Moriarty’s name on his skin and his mouth and throat still tasted bitter and his jaw still hurt, phantom pain but what difference did it make, really?) Mary on her back, on white pristine sheets, her legs wrapped around John, arching her back, her nails digging into John’s back, free – free to shout his name while climaxing, free to have his seed inside of her.

_Between the potency And the existence_

A photograph, just a screenshot of a pale man on a couch, surrounded by crumpled paper. It had been taken mere seconds after he had ripped everything away from the wall, he would have ripped the world apart, he had wished he could run and run away, chasing criminals, see blood flow. He didn’t particularly like blood flowing or violence and pain – he liked it when things were elegant and clever. Unlike what some people thought he did not get off on dead people and their deaths, he got off on the game. There was a difference. There was. But the only game that night had been seeing John leading Mary, dressed in white, for their first dance as man and wife.

And Molly Hooper had cried while he played the violin. Molly had known, because she knew he looked sad when he thought John wasn’t looking. She knew because she loved him and Sherlock had felt empathy, for once. He had felt sorry – he had wanted her to be happy, because no one, no one deserved to have their hearts ripped apart like that)

_Between the essence And the descent_

That picture didn’t show how his chest had heaved as he tore down those sheets of paper, how his eyes had stung, how the silence had been worse than being held with his head underwater (and it was not hyperbole, he loathed figures of speech, the feeling was indeed comparatively worse than his head being kept down in a bucket of water), there had been no escape, no corner of his mind palace where he could find solace, respite. There had been just the sound of his breath and the rustling the sheets of paper.

John, pushing into Mary, touching her, kissing her, looking at her, his seed spilling into her, their objects mingling, their breaths as one, their lives united, forever, by the conception of a new life.

_Falls the Shadow_

Mycroft had hidden that picture only. Not the one where John and he were kissing (he had already known, he had expected it, he genuinely didn’t care as long as caring didn’t become a disadvantage and it already was, therefore it was a moot point and it was none of his _bloody_ business anyway!), or the other ones – which told stories as well, if one knew, if one observed. And someone had observed. Someone had carefully chosen each and every image, creating a pattern, a story he could almost hear in Moriarty’s voice: how Sir Boast a Lot came to care _(Love._ As unsatisfying as English was to even begin to describe what he felt for John Watson – love, although inadequate, was, at least a partially correct verb) for the bravest and kindest and wisest knight of the court and after he fell from a tower, he realized he had fallen in love and his heart was ripped apart, burnt, day after day, until Sir Boast a Lot realized it, saw how broken his heart was – in a dark room, the one he used to sit in with his knight.

Those pictures had been effective, the one Mycroft had hidden particularly. He had honestly expected images from his hours in the basement. He had dreaded seeing them, not for himself (he had been there, he recalled every single second of those 480 minutes spent with Herman Bennett, he hadn’t been allowed to seek sanctuary in his mind.) but for John.

At minute 260, Herman Bennett had _almost_ broken him. He had taunted him before that, of course, – he had tried to get a reaction out of him, but for a moment, just one moment, Sherlock had truly been afraid. In hindsight he knew it had been an idle, empty threat to John – but the idea of John, in his place, bleeding in that basement, or anywhere else, had scared him. It had been a moment, just a second out of 3.600, but it had weighed on Sherlock, had made his heart beat like a caged beast in his chest – and Bennett had smiled, while licking his blood from his chest. Bennett had known.

Lestrade, John and even Mycroft were scared for him – they read his medical chart and saw whatever they wanted to see, inferring scenarios that were not close to the truth. No, he was _not_ good. He knew his body wasn’t healing as quickly as expected, the past three years had taken its toll on his health. But he knew he was healthy enough to leave the hospital without dire consequences. He honestly did not want to play Bennett’s game, though. He wanted to go home, with John. John, who had kissed him in the flat, not out of pity, but because he had wanted to. (would he still want to?), John who wasn’t wearing his wedding ring any more, it was in a pocket of his duffel bag, John who hadn’t left his side, hadn’t asked stupid questions, he was a medical doctor, he could read, he had eyes, he didn’t need him to spell out the words (but he would answer his questions, if he asked. He would tell him.)

_Yes, John. Herman Bennett marked me. He carved me up with a razor, using my skin as a canvas._

_I hate having Moriarty’s name on my skin._

_Yes, John. It was physically painful._

_No, it was not the worst I’ve had, it wasn’t even the first time I was tortured, actually it was the fourth: Istanbul, Chicago, Serbia and London, a basement in the bloody suburbs._

_Believe it or not, I loathed Magnussen more._

_It was supposed to be humiliating and painful. And yes, John; Herman Bennett made sure it was._

_No, John. I cannot seem to delete what happened. I am trying._

Of course he did not like what had happened to him and shoving it in some forgotten room of his mind palace was proving to be impossible, as much as he tried, but that was not the problem. He would be fine, eventually, even if it was taking a frustratingly long time, even if he could still feel the sting of the razor piercing his skin and some of the old wounds in his back reopening and he could feel Bennett’s body – no! It would pass, eventually. It always did.

The problem was in the pattern that emerged from the photographs chosen to taunt him. The problem was not that they knew John was his pressure point; that was a weakness his enemies had long learned to try and exploit with various degrees of success. The problem was – the problem _was_ that he had failed. He had obviously failed in taking down Moriarty’s web. He had played by rules Moriarty had created and the man had won. The problem was that whoever had spied on him for the past eighteen months knew that his heart wasn’t broken any more.

No. That was not entirely correct, was it? Pain, heartbreak, loss – had faded, somehow – and on a dark night, in his flat, John had kissed him, because he had wanted to, not out of pity for the scars on his body – and Sherlock had kissed him back, because he had wanted to, he had even dreamt about kissing him, unwanted images that had crept up on him, time and again, traitorous messages from his subconscious that clashed with the reality of John Watson having left the flat, having moved on, having fallen in love with a woman.

The solution was not to push John away – it was simply too late. Even if he succeeded in send the man away, they would still use John against him. And Sherlock could lie to himself, could say that he could better protect John if they were together (not that John needed protecting, he would bristle if he knew that, he would be proud and adorably normal and claim he could take care of himself), he could say that divide and conquer was one of the oldest tricks in the book, but he was honestly too tired and raw to lie.

He was too much of an arsehole to do the right thing, to be noble, to be selfless. He needed John. John who would be back soon, tired and worried, afraid to touch him, tiptoeing around him as if he was frail ( _damaged goods_ , a voice, Magnussen’s, like in his dreams, suggested). Sherlock put the picture in the envelope, with the others, ignoring the way his right hand twitched when he heard knocking at the door; Anthea (apt alias for the woman) and Mycroft’s personal barber came into the room.

He was aware that he had a debt of gratitude toward Mycroft, for more than lending him his personal barber to prepare him for the following day. Of course he would never say as much as a word to Mycroft, although he supposed that asking for a favour, even an inconsequential one as that, was proof enough for his brother.

John would be back soon. And Sherlock was too tired (weak, raw) to ignore how relieved he felt at that prospect. He was not a good man, he was not a hero – and there were moments he wasn’t even sure he was really, truly alive, but he would do what it needed to be done.

Whatever it took.

* * *

 

 

 

 It was weird, but for some reason John had expected Baker Street to be different before entering the flat; maybe because he had lived in a sort of limbo, a bubble made up of a hospital room, too warm air, canteen food and Sherlock’s long silences. Or maybe it was because he felt different; after all the last time he had been in the flat he had kissed Sherlock – and so much had happened since then.

Mycroft was not with him, he had assured him that a car would be waiting for him when he was done collecting Sherlock’s things and those had been the only words the man had said. He hadn’t felt like talking either. There were too many things he wanted to ask, to many things he wanted to know and he had instinctively known that Mycroft would not or could not answer his questions.

The flat, of course, was unchanged; the only differences were the lack of a mirror in the bathroom, but thank God someone, Mrs Hudson’s most probably, had cleaned up all the blood and the broken glass from it (he might have seriously punched a hole through the wall if he had seen Sherlock’s blood. He had seen enough of it for a lifetime.) and his suitcases, placed in his old room. Mrs Hudson had told him that Mary had brought them, after their chat. There wasn’t a note and Mary hadn’t contacted him, but John was not surprised finding her rings on his desk. Part of him was relieved, he was a rubbish liar and an even worse human being for the almost staggering relief he had felt seeing those rings, but the other part couldn’t help being worried – Mary was carrying his child, their daughter, and he was afraid of how their unborn child could be used by Mary.

He supposed she could be creative with ways to make his life difficult without breaking the law; he chose to put those thoughts aside for the moment. He took his time while gathering the objects in the short list Sherlock had texted him, trying to acclimatize himself again with the flat, trying to shake away that feeling of unreality that still clung onto him.

Baker Street was _home._ It had been since he had set foot in it, with Sherlock, on a January day, what it felt like a lifetime before. He was trying to observe, to see the things he had missed – trying to understand how it had all come crashing down when Sherlock had smashed his fist against the mirror in the bathroom a few days before.

He had been so blind. And it didn’t help him thinking that Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to know because John himself hadn’t wanted to know, he hadn’t wanted to see. As he fetched Sherlock’s things: his laptop, his mobile charger, clean socks, pants, a white shirt, a black Spencer & Hart suit, he was forced to stop, breathing heavily through his nose when he realized how much he had punished Sherlock.

It was an epiphany, really, one moment he was folding Sherlock’s shirt and a moment later he was blinking hard, in Sherlock’s room, feeling the emptiness of that flat, of the past eighteen months like a physical blow and he knew: he had punished Sherlock, in little ways, every day, ever since his return and Sherlock had let him. God help him, Sherlock had let him punish him, for the heartbreak, for the grief he had felt, for having to learn how to exist again without him. He had never asked, not once, what had happened during those two years he had been away. Up until he had seen the scars on Sherlock’s back (and later, in the hospital, the others) he had assumed Sherlock had – done what he usually did: be amazingly brilliant, unravel mysteries; he had not stopped and thought about the dangers, about the fact that he had risked his life, every single day, and he had not been there to watch his back.

He had not wanted to know. He had pretended to having moved on, pretended that it hadn’t taken him almost two years to even consider going back to Baker Street to properly say goodbye to Sherlock (and he hadn’t, not really, he hadn’t even dared to touch any object in the flat, just a last visit, forcing himself to say out loud that he was moving on, that he was about to get married, that he was fine). He had not asked how Sherlock was doing, and he should have known – he should have known how _not_ fine things were when Sherlock’s parents had started to be part of his life again, when in the eighteen months before he had fallen he had never mentioned them, not once.

He clutched the white shirt in his hands and had to sat on the bed (Sherlock’s bed) as the past eighteen months replayed themselves in his mind in painstaking detail. How could he have been so blind? Jim Moriarty had seen it, and so had Magnussen and Mary and Sherlock himself had laid his heart out bare, during his wedding, for everyone to see (and they had, hadn’t they?) and John had kept being blind, except for one moment, when they had locked gazes right before he went to dance with Mary and John had come close to really understand, to really observe Sherlock.

And someone had spied on them all that time, someone had taken photographs of them and in most of those pictures (and he hardly had an eidetic memory, yet those images were seared in his brain) Sherlock had been looking at him and there had been something naked in his eyes in some of those photographs, there had been longing in his eyes and he had been a blind moron. He had been blind to the depth of his own feelings (and punishing Sherlock had been far easier than facing the truth, than looking into himself), blind to Sherlock’s, blind to Mary’s deceits and lies, blind to his surroundings. He wasn’t any more. He had thought the same thing, in that very flat, the night he had seen Sherlock’s scars, the night he had kissed him – but only now, in that too silent room, surrounded by Sherlock’s things, he was seeing things clearly, he was really observing. He had said he would not going anywhere, that he would not leave Sherlock’s side, and he had meant every single word, each time he had said it, but he was realizing, in that moment, what Mycroft had truly meant the first night at the hospital – about being Sherlock’s pressure point, about being his source of strength.

 

Sherlock loved him. But that wasn’t what was keeping him rooted on the spot, sitting on Sherlock’s bed, clinging to a white shirt, while blinking his eyes and fighting back tears. No. Sherlock was _in love_ with him; in a very human, very messy, very silent, all encompassing way – the kind of love that had made him walk into the fire, for him, who had painted a target on him and Sherlock had proudly worn it, never denying Magnussen’s words, smiling that day in the tarmac, even if the air had felt heavy and he had been pale and he had been sent away to die – and he had tried to make things light, he had tried to give him a future. I think it could work.

And he thought about Sherlock, allowing him to stay with him during his medical examinations, knowing that he could compartmentalize what had happened to him if he focused on the medical jargon, on the way to cure his physical wounds, but had sent him away whenever he had talked to Greg. He still hadn’t been allowed to get anywhere close to his official statement, it didn’t matter that he had asked for it more than once.

He thought about Mycroft’s words, a few hours before, outside Sherlock’s room.

_Keeping you safe is his priority. Even now._

“Oh, Sherlock...” He whispered.

Didn’t he know? Didn’t he know that he would die before letting anything happen to him again? Did he know that he didn’t want him to sacrifice himself again, to be noble, to be a bloody hero, that he had stopped punishing him and that the two kisses they had shared had been more than mere kisses for him? Did he know that he wouldn’t break, he wouldn’t fall to pieces if he heard what had happened in the basement? Did he know that there was no way in hell that he would allow to any of those psychos to use him, again, to hurt him? Did he know how much he truly, madly, deeply, bloody loved him?

He let out a chuckle. _Truly, madly, deeply?_ Really?

He blinked his eyes, surprised when he felt tears trail down his cheeks. He was not a crier. That was not how he had been wired. Yet the tears were there and John was too busy clutching Sherlock’s white shirt (he would have to bring him another one) in his hands to wipe them away. He was too busy thinking about punched mirrors, scalding water, big gulps of air taken after a nightmare, quiet silences and tentative smiles.

He was too busy thinking about a picture of two men kissing, clinging onto each other, just outside that room, without lies, pretences, blindness and alibis. He was too busy thinking that whoever had sent those pictures had fucked with Sherlock for the last time, because he would tear London apart, the whole world apart before he let them anyone hurt him again.

Sherlock Holmes was _his._ To protect, to cherish, to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem quoted in this part is from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind words, about the story. RL has been so time consuming that I could not reply to you guys, but believe me, each feedback is treasured and loved! Sorry for the delay in updating, I'm finally finished with teacher training, therefore I will have more time both to write and update:)  
> And sorry, so sorry for any grammar mistake you might find!

"What happened?" Sherlock's voice made John start.

When he had got back to the hospital, to Sherlock's room, the man had had his eyes closed, the soft rise and fall of his chest suggesting that he was, for once, truly asleep.

John had felt relieved, still raw (and oddly clean too, freer than he had felt for a long while) from -well, from sobbing like a child in Sherlock's bedroom, to face the man.

He had tried to be silent, not to disrupt Sherlock's sleep, taking a book and settling on the other bed in the room, but his mind had drifted, his eyes lingering on Sherlock, noticing the lack of stubble on his face and he had even recognized the smell of Sherlock's shampoo in the air; he had smiled, at first, until he had realized that Sherlock was simply getting ready to go into battle, getting ready to wear his armour in order to face Herman Bennett.

He had sighed, without meaning to - oblivious of how shaky the sound had come out until Sherlock spoke

"Nothing." He quickly answered.

 _Damn,_ he thought, when Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him and John's hand tightened on his book, the momentary panic at the idea that Sherlock could deduce he had been crying, that he had splashed his face with cold water, after, and had felt short of breath for a moment when he had seen the broken mirror on the wall eclipsed when Sherlock actually looked at him, and John could see it now; it was the same look he had seen in the photographs: naked and filled with _sentiment,_ how could have he missed it before?

Sherlock didn't deduce him, although he _knew_ (how could he not?), and John cleared his throat saying, "I sort of liked the stubble, to be honest."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, "Did you?" He asked, and if he didn’t know Sherlock so well, he would say that there was a hint of teasing _(flirting,_ he was pushing forties, he could bloody well call things with their names!) in his voice and the smile on his lips.

John shrugged, discovering that smiling at Sherlock, especially if the man was smiling as well, was easier than expected.

“Sherlock...” , “John...” They spoke at the same time and maybe it was because of what had happened in Sherlock’s room, or the pictures he had seen, or maybe it was just the fact that underneath the red haze of anger, helplessness and rage he had felt for the past few days there was a single truth that was now hovering over them, warm and electric and good: he was _in love_ with Sherlock, he had been for so long that it was now part of him, like the fact that he was left handed, slept on his back and was British.

“You aren’t wearing your wedding ring .” Sherlock said, breaking the silence in the room.

John knew that Sherlock had already noticed, he hadn’t commented on it until that moment, just like he wasn’t commenting on his red rimmed eyes.

“It wasn’t fair to still wear it –” John said.

“She is the mother of your child.” Sherlock said in a low voice, “You mustn’t forget that.”

John shook his head and moved from his bed, Sherlock followed his movements as he sat on his bed. “I’m not. Believe me. But it still wasn’t fair to still wear it. Not after ..”

Sherlock’s lips curled in a cruel smirk and John felt that if he didn’t talk, if he didn’t clarify any possible misconception right away, they would get stuck in yet another loop of hurtful words and silences and John just didn’t think he had enough strength left in him, not that night.

“Remember when we talked about buying time until the baby was borne?” John asked, talking before Sherlock could.

Sherlock nodded at his words, even though he could tell he had been about to speak.

“It was all fine and good, until –” John took a deep breath. Why was it so difficult to talk? Why couldn’t he say the truth?

“It wasn’t.” Sherlock said, and his lips had lost that cruel curl, his voice was soft and John was sure he could hear a hint of regret in it. “Fine and good, that is.”

John felt irrationally breathless for a moment, he didn’t dare move a muscle, even if he was so close to Sherlock that it would take literally nothing to touch him, he was just a breath away from him, but John kept still, nodding at Sherlock’s words, “It wasn’t, you’re right. But – then...”

“I followed Herman Bennett.” Sherlock said.

“No, God – _no!”_ John exclaimed.

He still didn’t move, but he sought Sherlock’s gaze with his and said, “No. We kissed, do you remember?”

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t add anything – and John thought that it was only fair that he should say the words. “It all flew out of the window for me that night. I – had forgotten that Baker Street wasn’t home, even before we –”

Sherlock frowned, “It will always be, John. It would have been, regardless of – ” He trailed and John saw that he was looking for the right words and he felt a little smile tugging at his lips, which faded when Sherlock said, “Our current predicament, whatever it is.”

“I want to be with you.” John said – and the words came out so easily, as if they’d been waiting forever to be said, as if they’d been on the tip of his tongue, unbeknownst to him, and needed to be said. And maybe they did. And it was also the truth; six, simple words that made him feel lighter than he had felt in a very long time.

He started when Sherlock grabbed his wrist, his fingers were warm against his skin and John couldn’t stop looking at the man, even when he levelled him with his gaze and said, “Then why are you afraid to touch me?”

“I’m not.” John said quickly.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and whispered, “You don’t touch me unless it is absolutely necessary, and even then you are hesitant. You have been in my bedroom in Baker Street, your eyes are red rimmed, you have –”

“I’m in love with you, Sherlock. And _you_ are in love with me.” John said, not even caring about how strongly Sherlock was gripping his wrist now.

Sherlock did not deny his words, they were past the point of that and part of John couldn’t believe that it was really happening, that he had really said the words, and the world hadn’t ended, his heart was still beating, Sherlock was still there, gripping his wrist (and it would be completely _fine_ if he left bruises on his skin, Sherlock shaped bruised to remind him that it had really happened, he had really told Sherlock he loved him.), looking at him, a frown of confusion on his face.

“I’m not afraid to touch you.” John said.

It was important that Sherlock understood him, believed him.

“Prove it.” Sherlock said. And he had not imagined that Sherlock’s voice had been but a whisper, he hadn’t imagined the emotion in it. It was there, in his eyes too: a request, a test, a command, a pleading, all rolled into one.

And John had never been able to deny Sherlock anything, he wasn’t about to start now.

He tilted a hand up, resting it on the side of Sherlock’s neck. It was still bruised, the marks on his pale skin had faded somewhat but they were still there, yet he was not hesitant, feeling that Sherlock would not react well to a tentative touch, not in that moment.

Sherlock leaned into his touch, closing his eyes for a moment. “John...” Sherlock whispered.

He opened his eyes and John smiled, noticing with a certain surprise that somehow the distance between Sherlock and he had shortened, for the past few seconds. When had he moved? He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body and had to still when the man’s hand left his wrist and curled around his nape.

It was John's turn to close his eyes, his heart drumming in his chest when he felt Sherlock ghosting a breath against his lips and his warm forehead resting against his own. That was different, John thought; they had kissed twice, and both times he had been left breathless and tingling with longing, with the taste of Sherlock's lips, with the feeling of _want-need-more-now_ , there had been urgency, anger.

He was still breathless, but with the intimacy of sharing his breath with Sherlock, with the warm silence surrounding them, he was also tingling with the feeling of Sherlock's skin against his own...and he wanted more, he wanted that for as long as Sherlock would have him.

"I can't do the right thing, the logical thing, John. Not this time." Sherlock said against his lips.

The _right_ thing...like justifying Mary's actions to protect him, even if it literally almost killed him. The _logical_ thing...like protecting him with a magic trick that had made him bleed and hurt and had almost driven John crazy with grief.

"Good." He said, "because..."

Sherlock's lips on his silenced him; it was a chaste touch, inquisitive but undemanding, Sherlock's fingers were still curled around his nape, and the other went to his chest, right above his heart. There was a part of him that couldn't help thinking that he shouldn't kiss Sherlock back, that it was wrong, that it was too soon after what had happened to him, that it could make a right mess of what they had - but there was nothing sexual in that kiss - it was the words that Sherlock couldn't say (not that he needed to), he realized, as Sherlock sought entrance, licking along the seam of his lips, that even now he was trying to protect him, to keep Bennett and the apple, the pictures away.

It was Sherlock's way to tell him, after days of blood, silences and words said in a too soft voice, that it was still _them,_ against the rest of the world. He felt lightheaded, humbled, at peace for the first time in days.

It was intense, because everything with Sherlock was.

It felt right, natural - and John smiled, against Sherlock's lips (and it was another small miracle in itself that he could smile while kissing Sherlock)when he felt the man relaxing against him.

And it was Sherlock...mad, impossible, frail, determined and _his,_ trailing his long fingers through his hair, the other still on his chest, and John didn't even care that the other man could feel how strongly his heart was beating. It was fine - no, it was perfect...

...until it wasn't.

It was fine until they were kissing, and John half suspected that he could become addicted to that, to Sherlock’s taste, to the feeling of his body close (not pressed flush together, there were scars on his chest, of which they were all too aware) of his nails scraping his scalp, of his breath against his skin.

It was fine when they broke the kiss and John felt breathless, and he couldn’t help smiling when he saw Sherlock’s eyes, dark with passion, his lips swollen and his hair (perfectly coiffed while he had been away) mussed.

It was fine – it was perfection: Sherlock was there with him, not going through the motions as he had for the past few days, he was smiling a small, almost shy smile that reached his eyes, and it didn’t matter that they were in a hospital room, or why they were there; it didn’t seem to matter to Sherlock, who looked the closest to happy he had ever seen him and even John almost forgot, for a moment.

He took Sherlock’s hand in his, his right, scarred and bandaged one, the one that had rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under his palm, and brought it to his lips. John knew right away it had been a mistake: Sherlock stilled; he saw that blankness, that horrible hollowness enveloping the man, and John was so surprised that he didn’t even feel it when Sherlock removed the hand from his, his voice felt like a slap in the face, though, it was cold, when he said, “Please, don’t.”

John didn’t move, he was too numb, for some reason, to do anything, except swallowing hard, licking his lips (he still tasted Sherlock) and say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s not what you think!” Sherlock said sharply, marvelling he added, “But I’d rather you did not do _that_ again.”

“I’m sorry...” John said, again...because what could he say? He had been so bloody stupid!

“John.” Sherlock said, breaking his train of thoughts, he was looking at him, an annoyed look on his face, “It is fine, I can promise you.”

It was _not_ fine. How could it be? They were tiptoeing around the issues and even the bloody words, and Sherlock had frozen and – had he even got hard at all?

“John!” Sherlock repeated, with more vehemence, that time, and he felt irrationally grateful to the man for having taken him away from that particular train of thought, because he wasn’t sure of anything.

He felt like he might be sick.

“Sherlock, I’m –” John trailed.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed and he took his face in his hands, forcing him to look, really look at him, “I told you: it is not what you think!”

He wanted to believe Sherlock, he really did; but even if Bennett had nothing to do with his sudden stillness – there was still something wrong; first the fist smashed against a mirror, then the same hand kept under scalding water – and then –

“What happened?” John asked.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn’t stop the words that came out of his mouth. Sherlock’s hands were warm on his face and John wanted nothing more than lean into the man’s touch, close his eyes and pretend that the last few minutes had not happened, and he knew that Sherlock would have appreciated that, he would have been grateful, perhaps, or relieved. But – he had thought he was not blind any more, hadn’t he? He could not go back to that way of thinking.

“John -” Sherlock sighed, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs, he doubted the man was even aware he was doing that.

“I want to –” John started, but Sherlock interrupted him saying, “There is no need. It’s been already taken care of.”

He hated how matter-of-fact Sherlock’s voice was. He hated that there had been something that needed to be taken care of  in the first place and he hadn’t known.

He hated the scars on Sherlock’s body, the old and the new; he hated that there were things he didn’t know, things that made Sherlock smash his hand against a mirror in their flat (and sod it all to hell, it was _their_ flat, their _home,_ Sherlock was right), or keep it under scalding water until the skin blistered, but his voice was even and he looked confused and worried about him.

“I will tell you, it’s nothing - but not now. I need to work.” Sherlock said.

Was he lying? John couldn’t say, he was surprised when Sherlock’s lips covered his again, softly, gently.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment when they parted, and said, “But don’t think, not even for one moment that I did not want _this_ or whatever inane rubbish is going through your mind right now.” His hands left his face and John felt keenly the loss of physical contact between them.

He nodded at Sherlock, still acutely aware of how close to each other they were, on the man’s bed, and was surprised realizing that he wanted to kiss him. He was still worried about Sherlock, he was still reeling over what had happened, he still wanted to kill Herman Bennett, he wanted to ask Sherlock whether he was sure that meeting Herman Bennett was a good idea (it was a terrible, abysmal idea, and Sherlock wouldn’t change his mind, but that would not stop him asking.) – but, but he wanted to kiss Sherlock.

It had nothing to do with sex, not really; he wanted, no – he did not just want, he _craved_ to feel that close to him again.

Sherlock was looking at him, he could tell, and he was possibly deducing what he was thinking, but before either of them could do or say anything, Sherlock’s mobile phone rang.

John was a bit surprised to hear that sound; the mobile had been turned off for days; Sherlock kept looking at him even as he answered the phone. He saw Sherlock raising an eyebrow at what he was being said to him and ending the phone call without uttering a word.

“Turn the telly on,” Sherlock said.

John frowned in confusion, and Sherlock, his voice once again soft, lacking its usual edge said, “It was Mycroft. Turn the telly on, please.”

_It doesn’t matter, it will be in the news soon._

“It’s...” John trailed, but he was already up, taking the remote from the other bedside table in the room.

“Yes, John. Another kidnapping. It has started.” Sherlock said, he sounded tired, now.

He looked tired, John noticed when he looked at him.

There were still slight traces of the kiss they had shared, in the way Sherlock’s hair was mussed and his lips moist and swollen, but the dark smudges under his eyes had deepened, somehow, since he had answered the telephone. He took some tentative steps toward Sherlock’s bed, unsure on what to do and started when Sherlock took the remote from his hand.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment, before saying, “I wouldn’t mind.” He sighed at what must have been a confused look on his face and specified, “If you wanted to sit on the bed.”

John nodded, and sat next to him, their bodies close, just like they had been mere seconds before. Sherlock was browsing through the channels, he wasn’t looking at him, but John knew he was aware that he could not stop looking at him.

“Meeting Herman Bennett is not cause of concern, John.” Sherlock said without looking at him, John felt his heart stutter in his chest, though, when Sherlock added in a low voice, “He thinks he already got what he wanted from me after all.”

He could feel blood draining from his face, his heart heavy in his chest, burning at Sherlock's words. Sherlock couldn't seriously believe that – the fact that he was going to meet the bastard, was proof enough that _no,_ Herman Bennett (and his accomplices) had not got everything they wanted form Sherlock!

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something else, maybe asking him again whether he thought Herman Bennett had broken him (he hadn’t, John believed, but he wasn’t sure about his two years away, he wasn’t sure whether Bennett had deepened the cracks that were already there, unbeknownst to him). Sherlock said nothing, though.

“You should rest.” John said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded to his own ears.

He knew it was an exercise in futility, especially when Sherlock settled on a channel which was covering Joan Adams’ abduction. He was afraid, suddenly. Or maybe he hadn’t stopped being afraid for a single moment ever since he had seen Sherlock on the ledge of St. Bart’s roof.

He didn’t know, didn’t really care. The only thing he was aware of was the drumming in his chest, the warmth of Sherlock, next to him and the feeling that eight hours in a basement and everything that had happened there had just been a prelude to something else.

He started when he felt Sherlock’s fingers (his right hand) lacing to his own. He looked at him, Sherlock was engrossed in the images on the screen, on the words the journalist was saying (and later John would kick himself for not hearing, for not caring), he could see he was already deducing, he already had ideas, germs of plans, and it was amazing and terrifying at the same time.

He knew that Sherlock was loathe to play the game, that time, but that he would do it, not for the dead bodies Herman Bennett had stashed somewhere or because of the young woman who had been abducted.

He would enter the dragon lair and, by God, he would be there, with him, that time.


	9. Chapter 9

Her name was Joan. Greg had not missed that little fact. He had not even missed the fact that she was a doctor, or that she was blonde and had blue eyes. It was hard not to notice those kind of things, after the past few days.

Joan Adams had been taken from the flat she shared with her fiancée, William Moore (Greg would notice, later, the way John would subtly look at Sherlock at that). The fact that Mr. Moore had been there, bound to a chair, wearing a vest with enough semtex to blow up not only their flat but the whole block they lived in if he didn’t sit still and watch his fiancé being kidnapped had been the kind of thing that made Greg hate his job. There was also the fact that William Moore was tall, dark haired and had big blue-green eyes; he was a teacher (and somehow Greg had not been surprised when Mr. Moore had told them he was a chemist.) and was besides himself with worry and guilt.

That case was fresh and Greg already loathed it with a staggering intensity. The note for Sherlock, had made him want to hurl things against the cream coloured walls of the small, cozy flat Joan and William shared when he had first read it.

He knew that the kidnapping was connected to Herman Bennett, to the apple and the envelope in Sherlock’s hospital room, to the bloody scars on the consulting detective's body. He knew that the blonde woman had not been randomly chosen. Of course the media, like the leeches they could be, had latched onto the news of Joan Adams’s kidnapping and it had happened immediately. It didn’t help that whoever had taken Joan wanted everyone (Sherlock) to know.

Greg had never particularly loved journalists, they got in the way of his investigations, they were a bloody pain in the arse, but ever since what had happened with Moriarty three years before Greg could say that he fucking loathed the category, with an intensity that scared him sometimes.

They had kept Sherlock outside the news regarding Bennett as much as they could (the perks of Sherlock being Mycroft Holmes' brother he supposed), as it were Sherlock hadn’t even officially pressed charges against Bennett and Greg didn’t even want to think about the millions ways Mycroft Holmes was being creative with the British legal system. Protecting Sherlock had become a priority and part of that protection meant keeping journalists away.

They knew, of course, that Sherlock had been involved in Alyce Bradford’s rescue, they knew Herman Bennett had been apprehended thanks to him, they also knew that Sherlock had been wounded. They didn’t know what had really happened – and Mycroft had been very clear on that and had kept his word when he had told him that they would never know. It was dawn when Greg was finally able to go to the hospital; seeing the journalists outside the building surprised him. It didn’t take a Holmes’ genius to deduce that someone (Bennett’s accomplices? Possibly) had divulged Sherlock’s precise whereabouts. He ignored the cameras, the questions and the blinding headache that was forming behind his eyes as he got inside.

The first thing he noticed when he got inside Sherlock’s room – after the two guards searched him, even if he was on the list and he had already met them – was the silence. The telly was on, broadcasting the news of Joan Adams’ kidnapping, but neither Sherlock nor John were talking or moving, for that matter. The second thing he noticed was that they were sitting on the same bed, and he tried very hard not to pay attention to the fact that Sherlock was holding John’s hand. He was dressed: white shirt, black suit, his face clean-shaven (he was too pale, though. And was he sleeping at all?), the only outward signs of what had happened to him were the white gauze wrapped around his right hand and the faded bruises on his neck and face.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock greeted him.

 _No._ Not that tone of voice again. Greg thought.

Was Sherlock even aware of how he sounded? It was the tone of his voice, more than the words he said, or even the calm look on his face that had made Greg wish, more than once, that he had shot Bennett to the head. The fact that he wasn’t even supposed to have a gun to begin with and that he was not officially responsible for the shooting was something Greg chose to ignore.

Of course part of him also thought that he should have let someone else take the statement about what had happened in the basement, but he hadn’t allowed anyone everywhere near Sherlock (and bless Mycroft Holmes and his _minor_ position in the British Government for allowing him to), even if it meant feeling the blood drain from his face or boil in his veins while hearing Sherlock describing, in excruciating detail, what had happened, even if it meant that he had punched a wall or had stood under the spray of the shower blinking stupidly at the tiles, after, still hearing Sherlock’s words heavy and harsh in his mind.

All of them, even his request, made in a gentle voice, not to tell John anything.

“He doesn’t need to know. It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock had said.

And the worst of it had been that he had meant it. He had nodded right away, afraid that Sherlock would plead, and in that case Greg wasn’t sure he could have kept up the facade of professionalism and detachment he had imposed on himself. Greg looked at John, noticing he looked even paler than Sherlock; he wondered, for a moment, whether he had helped the consulting detective to get dressed – gritting his teeth in frustration. It was none of his bloody business! Except that it was, because the two men on the bed were his friends and the past week had been a long bloody nightmare – and it did not look like things were going to get any better.

“I take you watched the news.” Greg said.

Sherlock nodded; no snide retorts, not even an eye roll from the younger man and Greg took another step, shortening the distance toward the bed. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance, still apparently oblivious of the fact that they were holding hands, then John gave Sherlock a curt nod of his head (he didn’t squeeze Sherlock’s hand, he let the other man break the contact between them, Greg noticed) and got up from the bed, leaving the room a second later.

“What’s this all about?” Greg asked, and he honestly didn’t know what he was referring to.

“John will take care of the paperwork.” Sherlock said.

Greg blinked in surprise. Maybe Sherlock was right, maybe he _was_ an idiot, because despite the texts from Mycroft’s p.a., despite having seen Sherlock dressed, he hadn’t thought he would want to leave the hospital and actually meet Bennett. He didn’t want him to.

 _Fuck._ He thought.

“You have something to show me. It would accelerate things if you actually did what you came here for.” Sherlock said, breaking his train of thoughts.

“Listen...” Greg started.

Sherlock made a noise, something too subtle to be a sigh or anything else, for that matter, but to Greg it was loud and he had to take a breath before saying, “No. Listen to me, Sherlock, I mean it!”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and Greg glimpsed relief in the younger man’s eyes, nevertheless he made an impatient gesture with his hand, silently inviting him to continue. “Here’s how is going to work: you will not disappear, you will keep all of us informed, you won’t strain yourself or so help me –”

“I’m almost forty,” Sherlock said, “I don’t need -”

“Think of John!" Greg blurted out.

It was a low blow and he knew that. He was going against his policy of minding his own business and keeping his nose clean, but Sherlock had not seen John after he had faked his suicide, and he wondered whether he realized how close to snap John looked at the moment (he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, how could he not?), he wondered whether the consulting detective had noticed the way John was trying to shove aside his personal feelings and be there for him (had he even left the hospital since Sherlock had been admitted?).

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and Greg hoped to be subjected to a tongue lashing, it would be better than the soft tones and the emptiness he had seen in Sherlock. It made him think of those brief moments of silence right before an explosion. It scared him (and he didn't even want to contemplate the alternative: that it wasn't a prelude to an explosion but the results of an implosion. No. That would not, could not happen!)

"I have terms as well." Sherlock said, "John is not to enter Bennett's house later when I'm going. He is not to read anything about it, no statements, no forensics. I would appreciate it if you kept him otherwise engaged when I visit Bennett."

 _He doesn't need to know. It doesn't matter_.

What good would it do? Even if John never met Bennett (like _that_ was ever going to happen!) it would not change the facts. It would not change what had happened or the effect it was having on both men. Sherlock seemed to catch his hesitation, he sighed and said, “You have met Herman Bennett and he exploited our acquaintance.”

It was a statement, and as it often happened, Sherlock was right. He had met the bastard; he had interrogated him, or at least asked questions – and Bennett had enjoyed taunting him about Sherlock, about what he had done to him, corroborating what Sherlock had told him and what he, himself, had seen.

“You also know John.” Sherlock said, his tone matter of fact, “Should I go on or can you infer the rest?”

Oh, he could. He also knew about the pictures sent to Sherlock (he hadn’t seen them, he just knew that John was in all the photographs sent to Sherlock), just like he hadn’t missed the name of the kidnapped woman and her profession.

“All right.” He said, “I see your point.”

“Very good. May I see the note you have in your pocket, now?” Sherlock asked.

And one day he would not be surprised (and amazed) by Sherlock’s deductive skills. He handed Sherlock the note: a few simple words the masked men who had kidnapped Joan Adams had forced her to write down, threatening to kill her fiancé if she didn’t.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the written words and said, “I see."

And he really did, Greg thought; Sherlock probably knew, from the way the letters curved or from the smudges of ink on the paper. It didn't really matter, he decided, especially when Sherlock handed him back the slip of paper, without saying another word. He didn’t move when Sherlock, pale as a bloody spectre, yellowing bruises on his face and neck, got up from the bed, he didn’t move even when he noticed how stiff Sherlock’s movements were and he remembered the blood in that basement, and how many stitches it had taken to patch him up – he kept looking at the wall, ignoring Sherlock as much as he could because of course the bastard would not accept his help if he offered. Not Sherlock Holmes, not from him.

Yet he couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure, Sherlock?”

“About what?” Sherlock replied, without looking at him, while he tied his scarf around his neck (the bruises were still visible, but Greg pretended not to notice them).

“About – ” Greg trailed.

Sherlock sighed; it was a good impression of the way Sherlock would normally act, and he could pretend that he believed him, that he wasn’t seeing the way he had clenched his jaws as he got up from the bed or how much weight he had lost after only a few days in the hospital.

“Obviously.” Sherlock said, “Detective Inspector Lestrade, don’t...” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and Greg hoped - and it was unsettling how irrational it made him feel - that Sherlock was going to end his sentence with a sharp: " _don't be boring!_ " because it would mean that the only things Greg really had to worry about were the bruises he could still see on the younger man's neck and the stiffness of his movements. It would mean that he was being irrational and stupid and boring and Sherlock would be all right.

He had learnt his lesson with Sherlock Holmes, though; he had learnt the hard way to observe the man, because the last time he hadn't, he had spent two years wondering whether the man had already decided to kill himself when he had gone to Baker Street to arrest him, he had spent two years wondering whether he had been contemplating ways to commit suicide as he tied his scarf around his neck and put his coat on, and if he could have done something to prevent that. Knowing that it had been a ruse, a trick to take down Moriarty's criminal empire didn't change the facts; when the consulting detective had come back, Greg had vowed to himself that he would observe him.

He knew, therefore, what Sherlock was going to say, even before the man said, "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"You're playing the game." Greg said and if his voice came out filled with anger, he really couldn’t help it.

“I’m aware.” Sherlock said.

And even though he laced his voice with a bored tone, Greg didn’t miss the way his shoulders had minutely sagged at his words.

“You don’t have to.” Greg said.

“Do I?” Sherlock asked.

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that usually paved the way to something unnecessarily cruel Sherlock would say to one of his agents, or witnesses. Before he could say anything, though, John came back, and even if part of Greg wanted to throttle Sherlock for being an idiot, for falling for yet another trap, he couldn’t bring himself to talk in front of John, who would probably agree with him on all counts, but he knew how Sherlock reacted to those kind of situations: he disappeared, he decided to do something rash and dangerous and he would burn in hell before he let it happen again.

“Ready?” He asked, instead.

John nodded curtly, looking at Sherlock then said, “There are journalists outside.”

Sherlock shrugged on his coat and said, “Obviously. Don’t you remember, John? Knowing is owning.”

Greg was not sure what Sherlock meant, the only thing he knew was that his words struck a chord with John, who took Sherlock’s suitcase from the other bed and said, “All right, then.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, “would you give us a minute?”

Greg nodded. To be honest he was happy to get out from that room, from all the untold things and the heaviness, he needed to breathe, to collect his thoughts, to be ready for when things would go pear shaped (because they would, they always did when it mattered).

The two guards outside (who would be their shadows when they got out of the hospital), didn’t spare him a glance, and Greg absolutely did _not_ wonder about what was going on inside the room, he did _not_ wonder what had changed between the two men for the past few hours – it didn’t really matter, it was none of his bloody business anyway, but he couldn’t help a small sigh of relief, one he hoped Sherlock didn’t notice (yes, he _was_ an idiot), when the two men, a couple of minutes later exited the room, John’s hand firmly planted on the small of Sherlock’s back, both of them looking less pale, more themselves than they had for days.

That didn’t mean Sherlock would not try and do something rash or dangerous or that he would not try and keep his promise to Sherlock. It only meant that, for the first time since he had seen Sherlock chained up that rack, in Bennett’s basement, he could breathe a bit more easily.

It only meant that hoping that things wouldn’t go completely pear-shaped just that once didn’t make him feel like a complete loon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he hates this game, he should be in the hospital – or home, he should get some bloody sleep – but he is here, because he was sent pictures of us – and because he is Sherlock and he can’t be anywhere else but here.

William Moore wore round spectacles that, together with his dark hair and blue eyes, almost made him look like a grown up Harry Potter. Somehow John hadn’t thought that they would be at that particular crime scene, not that time. He had expected them to go directly to see Bennett or, as Sherlock had suggested to Bennett’s house (only in passing, only once, but it had been enough; Sherlock could not seriously think about going again into that hellhole. Except that he was. He knew that as much as he knew his own name.).

He had made Sherlock promise before they left the hospital room that he would not leave him out, that time, that he would not try and be a bloody idiot; his exact words might have been different, though. He had asked him not to go and be a hero or a martyr. Sherlock had smiled, but his smile had not reached his eyes – and John, he had smiled as well, even if his lips had felt numb while he did. And before Sherlock could say, once again, that he ought not to make people into heroes because they did not exist (and he honestly had no idea what he would reply to that) he had kissed Sherlock.

He had moved slowly, to warn Sherlock, to give him time to step back, to give him the chance to cut him out with logic, with harsh words if necessary. It hadn’t happened: Sherlock had kissed him back, quick, soft pecks on the lips, and it had been warm and familiar and Sherlock had taken his face in his hands and things had felt perfect, like they used to be before Sherlock fell – before Moriarty had showed his hand, before Mary, Magnussen and Bennett.

Except that for a moment it had been better, because he had seen the naked look in Sherlock’s eyes, the love for him and something else, something fierce and primeval – something that he felt in his own veins as well: the need to protect, to make sure that whatever happened the other would be safe. It hadn’t lasted long, of course, and Sherlock hadn’t said another word after; not while they were getting out of the hospital, avoiding photographers and journalists, not in the car, while Lestrade informed them of the first stop of the day and gave them details about Joan Adams’s kidnapping that hadn’t been divulged by the press.

Sherlock hadn’t asked questions and neither had he, they had listened to Lestrade’s voice as he told them about the case and John thought that he really didn’t want to see that particular crime scene. Yet he followed Sherlock and Lestrade (and their two shadows, the agents Mycroft had assigned to protect Sherlock) inside the flat William Moore and Joan Adams shared.

The first things John had noticed when he had entered the couple’s flat, was how much it had been home for them: everything, from the mismatched furniture, to the books and dvds, the knickknacks and framed pictures on the walls told him how much William Moore and Joan Adams loved that bright, tidy flat.

That place reminded him a bit of Baker Street, not in any way that would make sense to a sane person (their flat at Baker Street was the exact opposite of the one Joan Adams and William Moore shared), it was perhaps the same feeling of a space loved, where two people spent time together in comfortable silence, or laughing together, or even fighting - but where they could be themselves, where they felt truly, really alive; it wasn’t merely the place where their belonging mixed together as much as the one where those walls ceased to be just a place and became a home. Their home.

It was the exact opposite of what he had felt in the house he had shared with Mary, even before she shot Sherlock and her past started haunting them. It was, perhaps, one of the reasons why he had had a bag ready, with a change of clothes in, only after one month of marriage. That cheery house in the suburbs, had not been home for him. It was as simple as that, really.

Sherlock had observed in silence the belongings in the house, he had not spouted off deductions a mile a minute, he had remained quiet, he hadn’t even crouched to the floor to better look at splatters of blood and dirt in the sitting room as he would usually do; for once he had been mindful of his injuries. He hadn’t asked anyone to take samples for him. He had kept looking around, apparently oblivious of the fact that the small flat was filled to the brim with Mycroft’s men and yarders. He had ignored the other people in the room, not even once commenting on the incompetence of the people surrounding them.

Sherlock’s mind was hard at work, he could see that, and it was _glorious._ He had missed seeing Sherlock like that. He was still too pale, of course, and there were bruises on his face and others hidden under his scarf and the collar of his coat. He was wearing gloves and his right hand was still bandaged, and there were scabs and bruises on his wrists, and yet his movements were fluid, his presence filled up the whole room, as he took in each detail.

He had ignored William Moore so far; the man was in the kitchenette, sitting alone at the table, holding a mug in his hands. He knew that Sherlock would only talk to him once he had deduced everything he needed to know. Only then would he ask questions, only when he already knew the facts.

He could see some of the facts as well – besides the ones told by tv reporters and Lestrade. He could see that William Moore had fought, hard, to try and protect his fiancée. He had wounded some of the kidnappers (there had been four of them, according to what Lestrade had told him), he had only stopped when Joan Adams had been, somehow, wounded. It was in the blood on the floor and the walls, in the broken furniture, in the torn fabric of the couch, in the broken glass on the floor, in the broken screen of the telly and the blood on it.

When a private residence became a crime scene John could never shake a slight sense of uneasiness upon entering it. He felt like an intruder – he was neither a soldier nor a doctor (especially when there wasn’t any corpse). It was even worse that morning; because as much as Sherlock was looking like himself and his eyes had lost that hollow look in them, he was playing the game, he was doing exactly what Bennett and the people behind him wanted him to do. And he was not blind or stupid.

The message to Sherlock had been clear even to him, especially when he had seen the pictures on the telly: Joan Adams was blonde, fair skinned, she had blue-grey eyes, and her fiancé was tall, had dark hair and was a graduate in chemistry. Joan and William. They were in love, it was crystal clear even from the pictures he saw scattered in the sitting room, snapshots featuring two people who looked at each other as if the other had hung the moon, as if they were each other’s world. And it was probably true.

He had seen pictures of Joan Adams on tv, she was a pretty woman, but in the pictures he had seen in the flat, she looked stunning, even while wearing no makeup and too large jumpers (William’s, he deduced). Had they been chosen just for their names and professions? Was there something more? Of course there was. There must be, or Sherlock wouldn’t be playing the game. Sherlock was still looking around when he met his gaze, he subtly pointed toward the kitchenette and John followed him there.

Greg had told them, on the way to the flat, that William Moore had refused to leave and go to the A&E, he had wanted to stay in the flat and help in any way he could. Mycroft’s men were searching the house as well, none of them spoke unlike the yarders, they went methodically through the flat, and the feeling of unsettlement in John grew, even if he knew rationally that Mycroft’s men presence was warranted because that case was linked to Bennett and to Moriarty. A couple of agents had occasionally gone into the kitchenette to ask Moore some questions, and the same did Lestrade’s men. Moore had answered their questions and had stayed in the kitchen, barely moving a muscle.

William Moore had looked like a grown up version of Harry Potter in the pictures he had seen, but when he entered the kitchenette with Sherlock and finally looked at the man he saw a tall, lean man with bruises on his face, a split lip, red angry signs on his neck and a torn, bloodied grey t-shirt. His hands were steady as he drank from his mug, he noticed that his right forearm was bandaged and blood was seeping through the gauze, and he had stitches on his right temple as well.

“You should be in the hospital.” John said.

“I’m fine.” The man replied. He didn’t look fine, he looked like he was hanging on a fine thread not to go to pieces.

“May I be the judge of that?” John asked, stepping close to the man.

William Moore tilted his head up and John saw – he saw himself in the man’s blue eyes, how he had been just a few days before, during those terrible eight hours, when he hadn’t known whether Sherlock was alive or not, when his mind had relentlessly supplied him with images from autopsy reports on the other people Bennett had tortured and killed. “I said I’m fine.” The man said in a hoarse voice.

 _Right._ He thought, remembering what Lestrade had told him, that William Moore had been almost strangled just a few hours before. He should make sure that his larynx was okay, he should make sure that he didn’t have any internal bleeding or a concussion, instead he was rooted to the spot, because he understood that the man needed to be there. He understood how helpless he felt.

“You have two cracked ribs, a sprained wrist and – “ Sherlock started.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Holmes?” William Moore asked, interrupting him. He hadn’t looked particularly upset by SIS presence in his flat, but Sherlock’s had piqued his curiosity.

“Mr. Moore,” Sherlock started, and John couldn’t help being surprised by the gentle, soft tone of his voice. It was not the tone of voice he’d had for the past few days, thank God no…it was the one he seldom used on clients and witnesses, when he didn’t want to appear like a consummated, arrogant arsehole – except, _except_ that he had gotten quite good at spotting Sherlock’s acts, and that wasn’t one.

“The name is William,” The man said, “and as I said, I’m fine.” Sherlock tilted his head on a side, observing the man in front of him. John knew that look, Sherlock was deducing William Moore, but he was refraining from talking. Or answering the man’s question, for that matter.

“I’m sorry to bother you right now, but we need to ask you some questions.” Sherlock said. He was standing in front of the man, his hands in the pockets of his coat, but his voice was gentle, soothing.

William took a sip from his mug and said, “Four trained assassins: two British, one from Czech Republic judging from the accent, one possibly American, I’m not sure, he had no discernible accent I could tell. They very used to working together, they were quick, efficient, they had a job to do and they did it.”

Unlike him, Sherlock didn’t seem surprised by the man’s words, he looked at him as the man described the weapons the four men had, their attire (all dressed in black, all wearing ski masks and gloves, no visible tattoos or scars.)

“It’s not your fault, William. I don’t think Joan’s kidnapping is related to your past.” Sherlock said when the man finished talking.

 _Past._ Clearly William Moore wasn’t just a teacher as the telly said – and John wondered whether Mycroft had told Sherlock or he had deduced it, even before the man gave himself away as, John suspected, a MI5 or MI6 operative agent. Or former agent, since Sherlock had talked about the man’s past.

William shook his head, “This doesn’t help me, Mr. Holmes and it doesn’t help Joan.” He said and Sherlock looked truly surprised by the man’s words. John realized that perhaps Sherlock had meant to ease some of the guilt the man must be feeling (which was in and on itself surprising, since Sherlock usually ignored or, worse, scorned guilt and sentiment especially during a case) and he genuinely didn’t understand why William Moore didn’t feel relieved knowing that he was not responsible for his fiancée kidnapping.

William seemed to understand Sherlock’s doubts because he said, “Mr. Holmes if Joan’s kidnapping was some act of revenge against me and my past we could somehow narrow it down.” He looked at him for a second and then spat, “Who the hell sent you here?”

“You haven’t been retired for a long time. It happened after you met your fiancé.” Sherlock said, and there was something in his voice he could not recognize, that he had never heard in his friend’s voice. “She never asked you to, though. It was your choice.” Sherlock continued.

William nodded, he took a sip from his mug and John noticed his scraped knuckles, “Yes. Very good,” The man said, “but you still haven’t answered me. You said my past has nothing to do with what happened, and yet SIS are here combing through my flat and Mycroft Holmes’ brother is in my kitchen deducing me, so let me assure you and the British Government that I did _not,_ in fact, betray my country nor was I asked to.”

Sherlock sat in front of the man, John realized that he had done so to be at eye level with the other man. “I wasn’t sent here by my brother, I’m here because your fiancée was kidnapped because of me.”

William rested his back against the backrest of the chair, blinking his eyes as Sherlock’s words sunk in. John moved a step right when William threw the mug against the wall, missing Sherlock (and considering what he assumed to be William’s past job perhaps not.) Sherlock didn’t flinch, he hadn’t even moved, his hands were still on the table, he didn’t react even when William said, “I don’t understand. This is the first time we have ever met, I have never met or worked for your brother!”

“It is quite complicated.” Sherlock said.

“Make it simple, then.” William hissed. “Explain to me in simple words why four men burst into my flat and -”

“You fought them, you wounded two of them – you haven’t been retired for a long time and you keep in shape, you could have …” Sherlock started.

“Sherlock…” John said stopping him, trying to convey with a look, that it was a really bad idea to say those things in that moment.

“I know,” William said, “but they broke her fingers. She is a surgeon, Mr. Holmes –” The man shook his head and John saw, for the first time, some cracks in his façade of calm. The man was looking at Sherlock, perhaps expecting a tongue lashing from him (possibly craving it even), but Sherlock didn’t talk, at first, and when he did he said, “I told you. It wasn’t your fault.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate when he started to tell the man about Herman Bennett – and John didn’t miss the way William Moore blinked his eyes at the mention of that name; how was it possible that Bennett had made such an impression on people while he had been barely a blip on their radar? When had Sherlock started to put the pieces together?

Sherlock gave William Moore an edited version of the truth, his voice was soothing and he didn’t look like someone who had just left the hospital – and for all intents and purposes shouldn’t have left it to begin with - , William listened to him, asked questions, but John suspected that Sherlock’s words weren’t truly registering with him, not yet.

“Are they using my Joan as bait? As – part of a game?” William asked, his voice hoarse and it sounded as if he had struggled with the words before uttering them.

“Yes.” John said.

_And he hates this game, he should be in the hospital – or home, he should get some bloody sleep – but he is here, because he was sent pictures of us – and because he is Sherlock and he can’t be anywhere else but here._

Sherlock nodded as well, “I’m sorry.” He said.

Was he lying? Sherlock didn’t care one way or another about the victims. He had kept repeating that for days, he hadn’t even wanted to meet Alyce Bradford or her parents. But – his voice sounded earnest, as if he was really sorry about what that man was going through. He hadn’t even commented on the fact that Moore had stopped fighting when the four kidnappers had broken her fianceé fingers.

_Sentiment. Human error._

“Why are you here?” William asked. “Is it about the note?”

Sherlock shook his head no. “I shall meet Herman Bennett later, and I will not meet him without having as many details as possible. They want to play, but I will not allow them to set the rules, not with your fiancee’s life at stake.”

Another lie, but it seemed to work on William Moore, because the man’s shoulders relaxed slightly. It seemed strange to John that Sherlock had not asked any more questions about the note. He hadn’t even known about the note until a few minutes before they had arrived to the flat. Apparently, though, Sherlock had known – Greg must have told him when he hadn’t been in the room. He had questions about the note, about its contents; somehow he suspected that it was yet another attempt to fuck with Sherlock, like Bennett’s victims or the pictures sent to him.

“They will contact you, and I don’t need to tell you that it will be unpleasant.” Sherlock said.

The man nodded and looked away and John followed Sherlock’s gaze, he had narrowed his eyes and John knew that look. He had missed seeing it on Sherlock’s face, the one he made when he had sniffed a trail, when he had deduced a missing piece of a puzzle.

“What did they give you?” Sherlock asked, “Is it a mobile or a tablet? I would say mobile but…”

William looked around shiftily and John didn’t miss the look the two men exchanged for a moment before Sherlock said, “John, close the door, please.”

John nodded and went to the door, he closed it, ignoring Lestrade’s inquisitive look and went back to the table. He sat, next to Sherlock, their thighs pressed under the table and John was surprised realizing that he could breathe more easily feeling Sherlock that close to him. He could see lines of pain around his mouth and bruise like shadows under his eyes and yet Sherlock was brimming with energy, he was – _amazing._ That was the only word that filled John’s mind. And he saw – he saw that Sherlock hadn’t really lied to William.

He did not care about the victims probably, he doubted he cared that much about Joan Adams as well, even though he had spent a few seconds more than absolutely necessary looking at the pictures in the sitting room – but Sherlock somehow cared about William Moore and what he was feeling. He was positive that Sherlock would deny that, vehemently, if asked, but it was the truth. It must be.

William had placed a smart phone on the table and said, “They received a phone call on this phone, they gave it to Joan and she wrote down what she was told. She was so afraid - I wanted to…”

“It’s not your fault, William.” John said.

God knew whether he knew about guilt – he knew all too well how all encompassing it could become. Sherlock, meanwhile, was examining the mobile phone, not giving any outward sign that he was hearing them.

“I should have let them break her fingers – I …” William trailed.

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Sherlock said, still examining the mobile phone, “you would have relented eventually. She is your pressure point.” There hadn’t been any reproach in Sherlock’s words, no hint of sneer or contempt.

_Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes_

He had seen Sherlock walking into the fire to free him (and somehow it hadn’t been surprising that Mary had stayed back, that it had been Sherlock to free him, to save him, to bring him back). William Moore, a former MI5 or MI6 operative had stopped defending himself and his fiancée when they had started to break her fingers.

_But look how you care about John Watson, your damsel in distress._

“What do you want me to do?” William asked, breaking his train of thoughts.

“What were their instructions?” Sherlock asked.

“Stay the fuck here and don’t be fucking stupid.” William said. There was a hint of defiance in his voice, of a challenge. John suspected that the man half hoped that Sherlock already had a brilliant plan in mind that would bring his fiancé back immediately. Or, perhaps, he wanted Sherlock to be a bastard to him rather than civil and sympathetic.

“Crude,” Sherlock said, “but that is exactly what you will do.”

He got up from his chair (and John noticed the minuscule twitch of his jaw when he did and he wondered why on Earth he had refused a shot of morphine before they had left the hospital) and said, “Let doctor Watson examine you, now.”

“I’m fine.” William said.

“You are not.” Sherlock said, his voice booking no arguments.

The mobile phone was on the table, and William looked at it before saying, “What are you going to do?”

“I will try and bring your fiancé back to you, William. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Sherlock said and left the kitchenette.

William closed his eyes for a moment and mumbled, “They will kill her, won’t they?”

John wished he could tell the man something to reassure him, he was about to speak when William said, “What happened to him?”

“He told you what happened.” John said.

He got up from his chair and, as Sherlock had asked, went close to William Moore, to examine him. The paramedics had already patched him up and he didn’t have a concussion, nevertheless he should be in a hospital, to have MRI scans done and some heavy dose of pain killers.

“Does he care about saving Joan? At all? Because this looks – personal for him.” William said.

“It’s complicated.” John said. He could tell the man a lot of things and he was sure that the man would understand them, but he didn’t add anything more. “Sherlock is –” John started.

“Everyone knows who he is, doctor Watson.” William said, “I had heard he was a –” The man hesitated for a moment, “an unfeeling arsehole.”

John didn’t reply. It was the truth, at least part of it was. It had taken him a long time to realize that Sherlock didn’t waste time with empathy for the victims, he often didn’t even bother to learn their names or faces (or deleted them) because it would not help them. He ran himself to the ground trying to solve cases, though and the game was only one of the reasons why he did. Because he had seen him offering himself up as a hostage, his hands tilted up, while a psychopath had held a bloodied and traumatized teenager – he had saved the victim, even if he had known what Bennett was capable of. He had followed Bennett because he had said what Moriarty had told him that day on the rooftop, when he had fallen to save the people he loved. He was many things, but he wasn’t _unfeeling._

“I read that he helped to save that girl. It wasn’t clear what he did exactly.” William said.

 _Great,_ John thought, he was being grilled for information by a wounded, scared former secret service operative. It made sense, in a way, William Moore had listened to what Sherlock had said, and Sherlock had clearly said that Joan had been kidnapped because of him (which was utter bullshit, and Sherlock couldn’t seriously believe that). William Moore had perhaps the right to ask some questions, that didn’t mean he could or would answer them, so he didn’t say anything as he checked William’s chest and ribs.

The edited version of the truth Sherlock had given William Moore didn’t include what had happened in the basement, so he couldn’t help being surprised when the man asked, “What did that bastard do to him?”

John didn’t reply. Telling William Moore what had happened to Sherlock, even the most sugar coated version of it would not help bring Joan back, and it definitely would not help Sherlock. William grabbed his wrist; the movement was so sudden that had John been another man he would have started, as it was John looked at the man, noticing the thin film of perspiration on his forehead and the dried blood on his neck, the man inched closer and said, “I can keep a secret, Mr. Watson. And I’m not stupid.”

He wanted to know whether he could really trust Sherlock to do his best to bring Joan back, unharmed. He wanted to know that Sherlock, who had read the note, would not lose himself in the game and think about saving the woman he loved.

John sighed and said, “He offered himself up as a hostage instead of Alyce Bradford and Herman Bennett accepted.”

William relented the hold on his wrist and nodded his head. “That wasn’t on the papers.” He said.

“No, it wasn’t.” John replied and he tried to convey with his voice that he would not say anything more. Truth was that as much as he sympathized with William, Sherlock took the precedence.

“And how long did he hold him before you found them?” William asked.

John shook his head. He would not tell that man, it was none of his fucking business and Sherlock was in the other room, he could hear his voice, he was talking to Lestrade, giving orders as if nothing had happened – but he knew that he was listening. He wondered for a moment why Sherlock had left him in the kitchenette with the other man, because if he had learned one thing the hard way about Sherlock Holmes was that there was always a purpose behind his actions – even if in that particular case he could not really understand them, because what could he do except telling William Moore that he should go to the A&E, have x-rays done and swallow some pain killers?

Sherlock knew that his words would serve no purpose whatsoever, because Moore was a grown man, apparently unfazed by physical pain (or, if he want to be maudlin, he could speculate that he was numb with fear and grief. He remembered that feeling only too well, after all.)

“Christ…” William swore under his breath and John blinked his eyes; he hadn’t said a word, and yet William Moore was looking at him as if he had spilled every word and thought that had crowded his mind ever since he had seen Sherlock in Bennett’s basement.

Was he really that bloody obvious?

He got up from his chair and said, “He will bring her back, William.”

The words were still hovering over them in that tidy, modern kitchenette, with magnets on the fridge, bright colored aprons, a red kettle on the stove when the mobile phone rang. It was a text alert sound, there in that pristine room (they still hadn’t had dinner when the four men had got into the flat, William had been waiting for Joan to come home from her shift at the hospital, he had ordered take out Chinese while her fiancée was having a shower – and it was so domestic, and normal that the sound of the text alert coming from that mobile phone made him want to hit things, made him wish that he hadn’t paid attention to what Lestrade had told Sherlock on the way to the flat).

He heard Sherlock and Lestrade getting in the room, even if he didn’t turn to look at them. He looked at William: the man observed the mobile phone for a few seconds, his eyes bright and sharp behind his glasses and then took it in his hands (steady hands, not a hint of trembling in his fingers) he read the text, and blinked his eyes, and John noticed that, for the first time since they had entered the kitchenette, he was actually holding back tears. He looked at Sherlock and his voice was sharp when he asked, “What did the note say?”

John felt that turning his back at William Moore, in that particular moment, would be a mistake, his instinct told him to keep his eyes fixed on the man sitting in front of him, except that Sherlock was behind him – and he needed to look at him, he needed to understand what was going through his mind, because Sherlock might have promised him that he would not be a bloody idiot (hero, martyr) that time, but that had been before they got into that flat, that smelled and felt like home, that had been before William Moore had looked at him and somehow had known what they had been through. Sherlock took a step toward them, he was behind him, and John turned slowly, craning his neck a little to look at the man. 

He had seen that look on Sherlock’s face before, when Sherlock had made him doubt he was even human and he knew, from previous experience, that he could say the most terrible things matter-of-factly, and the look in his eyes would remain cold and detached, he would be uncaring, unfeeling, because he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

Before Sherlock could say anything, though, William showed them the mobile: Joan was naked from the waist up, hanging by her wrists from a ceiling, her bare feet touched the floor, therefore John was reasonably sure that she wasn't in excessive physical pain. Yet. 

 It was impossible to determine where she was because there were thick black curtains surrounding her, there was a black plastic carpet underneath her feet. John could see that she had, indeed, broken fingers and blood was trailing down her wrists (she must have fought, he thought). She looked unnaturally pale, in shock (physical pain could do that to a person) and terrified but otherwise unharmed. 

“The text says you have an appointment in two hours you really don’t want to miss.” William said. His voice was even, soft, even when he asked, “What happens if you miss your appointment, Mr. Holmes?” 

“They will cut her up  and won't stop until I change my mind.” Sherlock replied, his voice as even and soft as William’s. 

William nodded his head, holding the mobile phone in his hands and John started, that time, when he felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder.

“A word, John?” Sherlock said. John nodded his head, in confusion, sparing a glance at William, who was looking at the picture on his mobile phone, ignoring them and Lestrade who had gotten close to him. He followed Sherlock outside the kitchenette, he knew that Lestrade’s men were watching them, while Mycroft’s were pretending they weren’t even there.

“What’s going on?” John asked. 

“I need to visit Bennett’s house before I meet him.” Sherlock said. Yes, he had said that already. He thought it was a terrible idea, he thought it was useless, but the look on Sherlock’s face told him that he would go anyway.

“You should stay with him.” Sherlock said. He moved, crowding his personal space for a moment, “He trusts you…” 

“You must be kidding.” John said. Sherlock was not kidding, of course. And he understood now why he had left him alone with William Moore. Was he hoping that he sympathized with the man to the point of wanting to be with him? 

“Don’t _even_ think about it!” John exclaimed, “Which part of I’m not leaving is escaping you, Sherlock?” 

And he knew that Sherlock could make it painfully clear if he really didn’t want him to go with him. He saw that he was tempted to, he noticed the way he straightened his back and the cruel turn his lips had curved into and he knew that he had to stop him, because he could not stop him from being himself, from trying and solve that game, but he would be damned before he let him do that alone. 

“Would you let me go alone?” John said. There were other people – and William Moore was in the other room, probably looking at his fiancé’s picture, but none of them mattered. Somewhere from the moment Sherlock had started talking and now he had taken a step back, he was still close, but not so much that John couldn't still smell him – smell the hospital antiseptic and iodine and stuffy air underneath the expensive shampoo and soap and clothes detergent – he moved, thankful because Sherlock didn’t flinch away from him (he might have started to shout if he had) and repeated, “If the situation was reversed – would you let me go there on my own?”

Sherlock’s face remained blank, unreadable, and his voice was laced with annoyance when he replied, “That is a preposterous question!” 

John wasn’t fooled, though. Not that time. If Sherlock truly believed he would be easily distracted so that he could go and be a sodding idiot he could think again. “Humour me!” He said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

John knew that Sherlock could lie, unlike him he could be an exceptional, believable liar when he wanted to. And when Sherlock turned, without replying to his question, without uttering a word, John had to close his eyes for a moment. No. He didn’t believe for a second that Sherlock would let him go alone if the situation was reversed, if he was the one who had spent eight hours with a psychopath and wanted to go back to the house where he had been tortured.

If he was sure of one thing after the past few days was that Sherlock Holmes loved him. He was a stubborn, bloody idiot, though – therefore even if he was the one who had been tortured, even if he had almost a hundred stitches in his body and should be in a hospital bed he would go and search for clues. Sherlock went to the kitchenette, ordering Lestrade and one of Mycroft’s men out when he entered. He closed the door and John couldn’t help exchanging a look with Lestrade. 

“He wants to go there.” Lestrade said. It was not a question, and John could only nod.

“Do you think –” Lestrade started, but stopped talking when Sherlock came out of the kitchenette, his coat swirling around him, even while his face was too pale, almost gaunt. 

“Let’s go.” Sherlock said. 

He still hadn’t answered to John’s question. 

* * *

 

Of course John had refused to be reasonable and hadn’t left his side ever since they had got out of the hospital. Avoiding photographers and journalists (and Sherlock used that term _very_ broadly) had been easy, even after they had left William Moore and Joan Adams’ flat. He supposed Mycroft’s men had some kind of use, after all. 

However, Sherlock could honestly say he didn’t care one way or another whether photographers saw him and took pictures of him. If they (whoever _they,_ in that case might be) wanted images of him on that particular day, while he played that particular game, they would get them, one way or another. 

Journalists, photographers, paparazzi, bloggers: tiny little brains all in a row, shouting to take pictures, seeking fresh blood, craving morsels of news in order to fill up space or gain more clicks. Tedious. 

John, though.

John had not left. 

“Don’t _even_ think about it!” John had said, when he had broached the subject. And Sherlock’s plans to send him away (he had five of them), by pushing his buttons if necessary (and he was good at that, he was so good, as previous experience had showed), come to a halt when John said, “Would you let me go alone?” 

Before that, he had thought that William Moore would provide a nice distraction for John – because he had sympathized with him. Sherlock had observed John in that kitchen and had known (hoped was perhaps more apt a verb, given the results) that John would choose to stay back, to help William Moore. They had been close, so close when John had asked him that question, and John hadn’t touched him – and his skin had craved for the man’s, because he had felt like he could think and be himself that way, instead of being trapped in some sort of bitter molasses that forced him to keep his voice even and his steps measured, because he didn’t know how else to move and exist in it. 

He was aware that he had not really answered John’s question in that flat. He had not known how to – if he had to be honest. He had been aware of everything at once, feeling almost overwhelmed by it, like when he was a child and he did not understand why he could see everything at once and why it never stopped.

“Humour me.” John had said. And Sherlock had; he had imagined John, with Herman Bennett, in that basement, in that soundproof room. And it didn’t matter that he would have found him in _minutes,_ it didn’t even matter that he would have shot Herman Bennett to the head the minute he saw him, killing both him and the girl he had held hostage. (Alison? Anne? He didn’t even remember her name, he must have deleted it without even noticing). The molasses had felt even thicker around him, tasting bitter in his mouth, numbing his fingers to the bone. Like cocaine against his tongue the first time he had tasted it. 

Except … _Except_ he hadn’t been scared then. No. He would not have allowed John to go there on his own. He would die before he let something happen to him.

He _had_ died. 

He was aware of John’s eyes on him (Lestrade too, for that matter, but he could tune him out easily). John was sitting next to him, so close that he could feel the heat of his body even through the layer of clothes they were both wearing.

“Can you _not_ follow me in the basement?” Sherlock said, breaking the silence in the car.

No one had said a word since they had left Moore’s flat, no one had asked stupid questions or tried to make small talk. Only John looked at him, nodding his head curtly. He had conceded defeat, he was aware of that and he could almost see Mycroft’s smirk, he could almost hear his words, in a morgue, years before.

_ All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage. _

It was a litany he had repeated him countless times; it was a lesson that apparently he still had not learned. 

_ In the end are you really so obvious? _

He was. At least where John Watson was concerned. He looked at John, cataloguing the weariness in his features, the residual smell of the hospital and the faint one of Baker Street on his skin; he smiled (it felt cold and fake on his lips but that was the best he could do at the moment and he knew he wasn’t fooling John, his fake smiles never did), and added, “It will be over much sooner that way.” John nodded his head, he did not agree with him, he had relented though, and that was all that mattered. 

He had not exactly lied to John: things would go more quickly if he wasn’t there in the basement; if he didn’t see. _That you are damaged goods? Useless? A failure?_ It was Magnusseen’s voice and underneath it Moriarty’s, Bennett’s whispering, leaving dark trails in his mind palace that he chose to ignore. 

He was _not_ frail. He was _not_ a victim, he would _not_ fall for those cheap tricks his subconscious was creating to weaken him. He didn’t look back when he got out of the car. He could hear the people following him: Mycroft’s men, Lestrade and John – he deduced things about the two men, about Lestrade, without even really focusing on it; it made him smile (and it was a genuine smile that time), it made him feel himself for the first time in days.

He hadn’t really felt himself in that couple’s flat, even if he had deduced what had happened and it had been child’s play for him, including deducing that William Moore was a former MI6 operative. It was an information that Mycroft had confirmed through text later, adding that while his previous occupation was not a coincidence, it bore no particular relevance with what was going on. It was merely a message. A reminder – a game.

Sherlock had started playing, but he had hated every second of it. Standing in that flat, looking at those pictures, seeing the life the couple had lead and how it had been violated in a matter of minutes. He felt like himself, now – he could feel his own limbs moving, he was in control – he knew what he had to do. Even if it meant entering Bennett’s house.

Both Scotland Yard and Mycroft’s people had searched the place, Sherlock recognized both approaches, and he couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the appalling work they had done. The cheery sitting room, with the round oak table and the satin flowers in a cheap vase, the yellow duvet on the couch and the pictures on the walls, though, were not important; Herman Bennett had barely spared a glance to that room when they had entered the house. Herman Bennett had lead a boring, uninspiring life, watching telly in that cheery sitting room, while eating take away curry and cheap beer, after a long day at the office, had also been building a torture chamber in the basement during the week ends.

He was sure that the victims had seen that room as well; some had been drugged, according to the autopsy reports, other had been probably scared but still hopeful. He could have ended it all in that sitting room. He thought. Bennett had been wary of him, careful of never lowering his guard, of not underestimate him; nevertheless, he might have disarmed him. He _should_ have. He could see, now, at least ten possible ways of disarming the man (hurting him, making him bleed on that awful creamy carpet, making him stop talking), and he had done nothing. 

He could see himself, standing tall, looking around in that room, ignoring the gun Bennett had pointed at him, following the man in the other room. He ignored the other men in the room, even though he could feel keenly John’s stare on him; it was not distracting, not as much as he had anticipated, but then again they were not in the basement, yet.

The trophies and the pictures had been taken away; the police had bagged all the items and catalogued them as evidence. He found comfort in the fact that he only needed to close his eyes to see the items – all  the objects, the pictures, that he had seen as he Bennett lead him downstairs. 

_ “Cat ate your tongue, Mr. Holmes? I had been said you just will not shut up. I imagine we will find out soon, won’t we?” _

He opened his eyes, closing his hands in fists in the pockets of his coat. 

His right hand hurt. Good.

He recited the facts aloud, the deductions, things that he knew were useless: the victims were dead and buried; they had met their demise long before Herman Bennett was even a blip on his radar. It was also useless for the current case: for the woman abducted in front of the man she loved.

Joan, fair skinned, blonde haired, blue- eyed and her dark haired fiancée. How predictable. 

Yet – here he was, playing the game, once again. No one asked him questions about his deductions or if they did, Sherlock didn’t hear them. He did not care. He was sure about what he had deduced. He was good at that, more than that: he was exceptional. He was a _genius._

And yet he had followed Herman Bennett in the basement, leaving behind his scarf, for when John would find him. He had known John would find him, eventually. Just like he had known, felt, that Herman Bennett would not kill him. Herman Bennett hadn’t even noticed when he had let slide the scarf on the floor, or if he had, he hadn’t cared. Perhaps he had even liked it. Sherlock could not be sure about that. 

He didn’t turn to look at John, he didn’t want to know the look on his face; John did not need to be there, in that house. He should wait outside, where the air was clean, not polluted with that _stench._ He must have said something aloud (how? When?) because he clearly heard John say, “I will not go outside, Sherlock.”

He turned to look at John and he wanted to cease to be himself, for once, he wanted to take John by his shoulders, shake him and scream. He wanted to tell him, “But can’t you smell it, John? It's everywhere! The air is ripe with it! Can't you see?"

Even then John, his John, wouldn't budge, even if he smelt and saw the corruption, the chaos, the cruelty bestowed upon people whose only fault was to share his physical features he would still be there, with him. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the rest of the world – how it was supposed to be – how it used to be. The irony wasn’t lost on Sherlock, who went on and walked.

He had not been afraid that day; even after his throat had gagged because of the stench of decaying and burnt flesh and congealed blood and feces, fear had been the last thing in his mind. He clearly remembered how much he had focused on the bleach Bennett had used to try and clean up, he remembered that he had wondered whether the man had used a dirty mop or stale water, because the result had been nauseating. 

John was still behind him and Sherlock suddenly, as he opened the door that lead to the basement, wanted to hurt him; he wanted to skin him alive with words, with the steel and barbed wire of logic and cold facts. He - he was not supposed to be there! He blinked his eyes instead, finding comfort and stability in the sharp pain in his right hand when he closed it again in an even tighter fist than before. 

He must have drawn blood or pus, he would have to dress the wound before he went to see Bennett, he noted to himself. He had counted the steps that lead to the basement, while Bennett held him at a gunpoint, that day. Even then, on the stairs, he could have disarmed the man effortlessly, and part of him wondered whether Mycroft's men, who were following him, were thinking the same. Overpowering Bennett, on those stairs, would have been child's play, yet he had followed the man. He had done _nothing._

_ _ _Splinters under his soles. They were piercing and digging. He was leaving trails and drops of blood on that dirty floor, shackles at his ankles, metal gnawing at his bruised wrists. A ball gag in his mouth. They were speaking Serbian, speaking of who would start with him, the stranger with long black hair and cocksucker's lips_.

Sherlock looked around: the room was almost empty; he knew that people, most probably even more incompetent than Anderson, were analyzing the items of that room in that very moment. Unimportant. None of those items would tell them where the bodies were buried. None of those items, carefully chosen to hurt and maim, but in the end useless now, mattered. 

Yes, Herman Bennett knew how to use a razor, a scalpel, a knife, a whip; he knew how to hurt. The bodies and the scars on his skin were proofs enough of it, but that knowledge would not help the blonde doctor, Joan. 

One could not say they were being subtle if even Lestrade had noticed their intentions.

John had kept his word: he was atop the stairs, he had not followed him down, yet Sherlock could feel the other’s man’s eyes on him. Did he fear that he would do something reckless? That he would pull one of his legendary daring escapes and leave them there? Or was he wondering why he had not freed himself before he had entered the small, soundproof room in the basement? 

_Manacles at his wrists. Muscles burning with fatigue, salt – on his skin. Was it sweat or had they poured it over his split skin? He could not say; the yellow wallpaper in that old room was peeling away and his dislocated shoulder throbbed. They would give him the information he needed, even if it meant - what, exactly. Kill? He had already done so – long before arriving to Chicago. Die? What a laughable idea. He was already dead. Wasn’t there a black, marble headstone with an empty casket with his name on it, in London? Moriarty needed to be destroyed. Each and every trace of him – every thread needed to be plucked out, or else Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and John – his John would never be safe_. 

It was easy to walk into that room, just like it had been the first time: no fear, just a hint of curiosity, a sense of numbness and detachment that had made him take in as many details of the small room as he could and was doing the same now. And yet he had missed something, hadn’t he? He must have, and not only in that room, that day, but also before – before he came back, that was the only logical explanation. 

He heard John’s sharp intake of breath when he entered the small room (it was not his imagination. Such was the silence all around him that he heard the man). The room was dark and he could smell himself in that – hole: his blood, his sweat, his own bile. And underneath it, other blood, other bile, other sweat – and _semen._

He turned on the lights. The room had been searched, but underneath it all, Sherlock could still see it how it had been. He identified his own blood on the walls and the floor. He recalled when and how he had spilled it. It was unimportant, though. He moved on, he kept seeing – he observed. Mycroft’s men were behind him. They were clearly following him and were following his brother’s orders.

Sherlock knew that they wouldn’t listen to him. He was reasonably sure that should he try anything that went against the orders Mycroft had given, they wouldn’t hesitate to bring him back to the car, where he would be forced to answer to a phone call from his brother in which he listed all the ways he was being unreasonable, reckless (a failure, a disappointment, a source of embarrassment and shame, a source of heartache for their parents). 

What would Mycroft say about the fact that he had willingly entered the room? That he could have (should have) knocked Bennett out cold; it would have taken just one punch to the throat, he had calculated the odds and they had been in his favour and yet he had not moved, his legs numb, his fingers tingling, blood rushing to his ears and his tongue swollen in his mouth? It did not matter, he decided.

He could not change the past; he could not change the _facts._ He could observe and deduce, though. He could prove that despite that momentary lapse he was still himself. He could beat Bennett, he could beat the people behind him, he could send Jim Moriarty back to hell, if by some weird machination he was not dead (he had to be, though. He had seen him die).

He knew that room like the back of his hand. He hadn’t been allowed to seek sanctuary in his mind palace, Bennett had wanted him there with him, he hadn’t wanted him to miss one single word, one single cut, one single act. He had observed, though. He knew where the rack he had been chained to had been taken. He knew how long Bennett had spent building that room and how many people had helped him (two people, one considerably shorter than Bennett and the other person, a male.), he knew how many people had bled in that room ( all the victims, all had been sexually abused in that very room, against that rack). He knew those things because he had kept cataloguing them, even when Bennett had ordered him to list all the human muscles in alphabetical order when he had finished with the bones.

_ Abductor digiti minimum, abductor hallucis, abductor pollicis brevis, abductor pollicis Longus, abductor brevis _

_ It was hot, humid, he might have lost track of time. Istanbul, four men, knives and electricity. Crimson trails on his skin, broken necks – pitch black darkness around him. Inside him. How did he get free? When? He needed to stop the bleeding; he needed to run to the safe house. He needed to breathe, to let the stale, hot, humid air out of his lungs before he collapsed.  _

He was looking around now, taking in even more details, the minutiae he might have missed during those 480 minutes. The room had been searched and examined of course, but Sherlock did not care about that. He didn’t even care about all the clues that Lestrade’s agents had undoubtedly overlooked and missed. Bennett had only killed to get him to play the game. Bennett would not go anywhere regardless of how many new clues he uncovered. Sherlock was not there to ensure that Bennett would pay for what he had done – even though he wanted him dead. He wanted him deleted from the face of the Earth and his mind. 

No. He had another job to do. 

“MI5 or MI6?” He asked, turning to look at the two men behind him. He took a step toward them, ignoring how suddenly cramped the space felt, how he wanted that foul smell to go away. The two men exchanged a look, but did not answer. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slowly started to take off his coat. 

“What are you doing, sir?” One of the man asked (younger than the other, scared to death of failing Mycroft’s orders, ambitious and still idealistic. So quaintly Queen and Country that Sherlock would almost pity him under any other circumstance).

“I want to dismantle that wall there.” Sherlock said, gesturing with a finger to the soundproof wall in front of him. 

“Sir, you can’t,” The young agent said. 

Good. He hadn’t asked why. He would do. 

“Oh, I can’t, can I?” Sherlock said with a quirk of his lips. It felt familiar, safe to do those things. He felt like he could breathe. 

“Sir – “The man started. 

The other man shook his head; he knew him, Sherlock realized with a blink. He recalled that man driving a car, bringing him to a safe house in Mexico – had he been wounded when they had met? Possibly. The days and wounds had started to blend into each other after a while. 

“What do you need?” The other man asked. And Sherlock remembered his name as well: Drake – or, at least, that was the alias he had used with him, that day. Sherlock could see a lifetime of danger and service to the Country in the man’s face, the initial idealism, frayed at the edges but still there, in his brown eyes and the thin scars on his face. 

“There is a hidden camera. I need you to find it.” Sherlock said. 

He was bleeding. Or perhaps it was a phantom feeling, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t care.

“This room has been already searched, sir.” Drake said.

And Sherlock heard, smelt Lestrade. He had been aware of his presence just outside the room and here he was, now. John had kept his promise, though; he was not outside that room, was he still upstairs? Was he still in the house? 

“We have searched this room for bugs.” Lestrade said entering the room. 

“I’m sure your exceptionally incompetent agents have, Detective Inspector. Now, if you don’t mind I want to find the hidden camera.” Sherlock said.

He saw the question in Lestrade’s eyes, he saw that he wanted to talk, to ask him how he could be so sure, but decided against it. And he didn’t know (and he hated it, he hated it that he could not be sure of anything in that moment, that even the simplest tasks like deducing Detective Inspector Lestrade were a real challenge to him in that room.) whether Lestrade didn’t talk because he was usually right in his deductions or because he had been the first person to enter the room, that day. He did not care, he decided. And neither did Lestrade or agent Drake – or whatever his real name was – because both men took off their coats, exchanged a look and got to work. 

“You don’t have to stay here.” Lestrade said in a casual tone after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, “You might find other stuff in the rest of the house, why don’t you…?” 

“The rest of the house is not important.” Sherlock said curtly, interrupting him.

“You won’t know for sure until you look, though.” Lestrade said.

He was looking at him, studying him, and Sherlock felt the sudden impulse to strike him. Unlike what some people believed, he was _not_ a violent person by nature, and yet the impulse of punching that look off Lestrade’s face was almost overwhelming for a moment. 

_ Skin, slick with sweat and blood, his and his jailer, under his palm, the satisfying sound of bones snapping, of that one last breath, that never changed, it always echoed in whichever space he was in, it did not matter how large or narrow it might be. He was bleeding, shallow cuts all over his body. They would not scar, nevertheless they stung with the salt of his sweat. Destroying Moriarty’s legacy was paramount; plucking out each thread until there was nothing left, no one left, until Moriarty would be but a name, synonym of: “you do not threaten Sherlock Holmes’ loved ones. You do not fuck with him.” _

_ He did not have much time; he needed to get out of that place, find a safe house, contact Mycroft, and not ask about John Watson. He never asked about him. He could not afford such a luxury. John Watson was safety, warmth, home, love, friendship, laughter and tears, Chinese food and mad dashes in his London. John Watson was the reason he was bleeding, the reason he was – doing what he was doing. Yes, there was the thrill of the chase; the fleeting moments where his genius, his own brilliance made him smile and twirl in the dingy rooms he squatted in.  _

_ He had come to hate those moments, because they made his loneliness even more apparent, because it still caught him by surprise when he turned and John was not there. And he could not afford the luxury of relying on the John’s in his mind. Not too often. It was too addictive, distracting, it made him feel home – and he had still too much to do. It was not about the game, though. It was not about outsmarting Moriarty, it was not about proving his brilliance or not being bored.  _

_ It was about John.  _

_ It was always about John.  _

He breathed through his nose – and how could they not smell that stench? – He closed his right hand in a tight fist, so tight that he actually felt his skin tearing (good, excellent), and nodded once at Lestrade.

“As you wish, detective inspector. After all, I am the person who spent time with Herman Bennett; therefore, I know it will be useless to look for clues in the rest of the house. Please, let me know when you find the camera.” 

The young agent followed him outside and Sherlock ignored him, choosing to focus on the throbbing in his gloved hand. Yes, he definitely would have to find the time to tend to it before he went to see Bennett. However, that could wait. He wondered, for a moment, why on Earth he had wanted to be in that house in the first place, because he could not remember now. He could have told Mycroft to look for the hidden camera and he would have been happy to oblige.

He did not need to be physically there; the unknown victims were going to be found after he talked to Bennett, of that he was sure, and Joan Adams either would be found alive or not, she did not matter, she was just a tool, chosen to get to him. And it didn’t matter that she had had a nice smile in the pictures in her sitting room or that she had looked at William Moore with love and devotion in her eyes or that he loved her beyond reason.

He hadn’t realized how quick his steps were until he almost crashed into John in the small room above the basement. John. John had stayed there, like he had asked him to, because he hadn’t wanted him down there, because – _because_ he could have ended things with Bennett long before they even entered the house and he hadn’t. And eventually John would ask him why. He would want to know why he hadn’t done anything to stop Bennett that day. And he had no idea why he hadn’t.

He would not know what to tell him, because before, before the cattle prod, before everything else – he could have done something. He should have. Like he had done in the past. Or had he?

“Sherlock?” John asked breaking his train of thoughts. 

“I’m fine. Everything is fine. I have to check the rest of the house.” Sherlock replied.

He heard himself speaking, he heard the dismissive tone of his voice, but he could not feel his lips moving and forming the words. How peculiar. John looked worried, but didn’t comment on his tone or his words, he only asked him whether he needed him. Sherlock nodded. 

God. Yes. He needed him. He had had to fling himself from a rooftop and bleed all over the world, later, to understand that one single truth: he needed John Watson. 

“Agent Harris, is it?” John said. Trust John to know the names of the agents assigned to protect him (as if he was a bloody child, but _facts_ had proven that he could be helpless, bound to a rack, stunned like cattle and carved up and used, therefore Mycroft would feel justified, he would gloat because once again he was a disappointment), and smile his most reassuring smile, the one that fooled people into believing that John Watson was harmless, that he was not dangerous and lethal.

The young agent nodded, and John’s smile was still warm, but his voice made it clear that it was not a debate when he said, “You can stay here. Mr. Holmes and I will check the rooms upstairs.” 

Before the agent could say anything, John said, “It’s fine, agent Harris. You stay here.” 

He felt John’s hand on the small of his back leading him away, he might have flinched, he wasn’t really sure since the only thing he could feel of his body was the throbbing in his right hand. 

_“Oh, I covet your hands, Mr Holmes; though since you survived, you get to keep them” Magnussen. In his room. His words, his breath polluting the air. Mary had shot him; Mary was dangerous (John. He had to help John. He had escaped the dungeons of his mind palace to go back to him. One more miracle. He had heard John. He would always come back for him and to him if he could help it.), but Magnussen – his skin, his mind …everything he was recoiled when he was close._

_Magnussen touched him as if he owned him. And Sherlock supposed that in that man’s hideous mind it must be true._

_Damp touch, dirty promises and innuendos._

_An artist’s hand, a musician’s, a woman’s (clear intent. As if Magnussen was the first person who wanted to make him their property, whether carnal or otherwise. But why did it make him feel dirty and exposed that time?)_

_“Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You will get used to it.” Magnussen said._

_He breathed deeply. Magnussen’s words, his lips, his damp touch were like Istanbul, Chicago, the woods in Serbia – and all the dingy rooms, the nameless men and women he had killed and wounded, the cargo ships, the shallow cuts and the scars. All reopened and raw, ready to fester and be devoured by Magnussen._

“What are we looking for?” John asked, bringing him back to the present, to Bennett’s house, to the anonymous bedroom where Bennett had slept.

He looked around and rolled his eyes, “Nothing we don’t know already. Lestrade thinks –” he stopped talking in mid-sentence. “You asked what I would have done had the situation been reversed.” He said after a moment of silence. 

“Sherlock, I’m not leaving.” John said. He sounded tired, and sad. Was he making John sad? Was he hurting him? 

“I know. But this is hurting you, shouldn’t I avoid that?” Sherlock said. And it was not what he had meant to say. It was not what he wanted to tell John. He wanted to tell John that he couldn’t take Lestrade’s sympathy, that his hand hurt and that he was happy about it, because it was the only thing that kept him anchored and rational at the moment. And he knew how wrong it was, but he could not help it.

He wanted to tell John that knowing how many times Bennett had masturbated in that room with images of blood and violence, possibly involving him – but he wasn’t really sure about that – would not help anyone, least of all him. 

“I’m fine.” John said.

“Are you, John?” Sherlock asked, “Really? Because you look quite pale and you were limping when we got out of the car and –” 

“All right!” John hissed interrupting him and Sherlock noticed how he looked around in that room and tried to observe, to deduce, and not to think about his words.

He was losing his mind. He realized. And he wasn’t even particularly scared at the prospect. He had wished to hurt John with facts, in order to send him away, but he truly did not want to hurt him, he truly regretted the words that had just come out from his mouth. 

“This is hurting you – it’s useless.” Sherlock said. 

The room was bright, sunlight coming from the big window, such a stark contrast with the dark, morbid fantasies Bennett had harbored there.

“It’s hurting you as well, but it’s not stopping you.” John said.

He moved, just an inch closer to him, without invading his personal space. Sometimes he forgot how well John could read him. 

_Maybe he smells that stench on you, Sherlock_. It was Moriarty’s voice, straight from the dungeons of his mind palace, sing-songing his words, mocking him, even now. 

“It’s sort of the point of all this, wouldn’t you agree?” Sherlock said. 

“You promised me you would be careful, that you wouldn’t go in too deep. Remember?” John said. 

He took another step, and Sherlock clearly felt the dichotomy between body and mind: relief, craving and flight or fight response. When had he become so weak? When had he got so chained to his body’s needs? 

John realized his discomfort, or maybe he must have flinched again - and it would take forever to explain, even to himself, why his body was reacting that way; therefore he chose not to try.

He moved, invading John’s space, breathing him in, finding out that breathing was considerably easier that way; that he could feel his own body, without bitter molasses making him a slower and numb. 

“I remember my promise, John.” Sherlock said. And he did, he had promised John, in the hospital room, before they left, that he would be careful, that he would not go in too deep, that he would not playing the bloody martyr or hero (John’s words, not his. He was neither: heroes did not exist and he despised martyrs.) . And he had meant to keep his promise to John, but he might have miscalculated his own reaction upon visiting and returning to crime scenes.

_Good._

He was good at compartmentalize, at least he used to be. 

_ Bastard, arsehole, heartless, manipulative piece of shit, raging psychopath, freak.  _

What happened to that man? 

“Well?” John said and Sherlock blinked, the stream of his thoughts interrupted and eclipsed when the man talked. 

John. _God_ – John.

When he had imagined – and he had, he was not ashamed to admit it – to be physically involved with John, he had thought that he would be adamant in keeping things strictly platonic on crime scenes.

He had imagined (dreamt, sometimes; hazy dreams while high after John had gotten married, with Janine in his flat, and John burning bright behind his closed lids, liquid, languid pleasure in his veins, no voices in his head, no chaos, and finding comfort, physical release in Magnussen’s p.a. would have been so easy; taking what she so freely and effortlessly offered, and he almost did. For a fleeting moment, with John outside his bathroom, green with jealousy, he had imagined, seen the scene: making Janine scream with pleasure, taking what she offered, losing himself in her heat, while still drugged, making John hear, hurting him, punishing him for the hole he had left in his heart, even if he himself had made it and had kept digging) things in million of different ways, different scenarios – but as it always happened with John Watson, the reality of his life with him, of them together, surpassed the imagination. 

He sought John’s lips, in Bennett’s bedroom, while two of Mycroft’s agents were downstairs with Lestrade, while his mind was reeling with all the deductions he had made about Bennett and his life, the hell in his mind, his accomplices – and the things he had seen in William Moore and Joan Adams’ flat. 

He breathed John’s air in his lungs, he breathed his scent in, and he smelled like home, like them together, on a hospital bed, hand in hand, silently watching the telly. He smelled like sunlight and sand and Sherlock could not stop kissing him. He didn’t want to. 

It was not their first kiss, it wasn’t even the first time he sought John’s lips with his, it wasn’t the first time he had licked along the seam of John’s lips, seeking entrance (and perhaps John would be surprised if he knew that, as a general rule, Sherlock did not like kissing or being kissed. He had never found the idea of having someone’s tongue in his mouth particularly arousing – John had proved to be the exception, like with everything else.), or that he felt John’s hands on him. 

He could feel the molasses melt all around him; he could think, breathe, exist – even the throbbing in his hand seemed more distant, now. John. His skin, his lips, his tongue - there, in that room, with the door ajar, and Lestrade and Mycroft’s agents downstairs. Even he could see, part of him at least did, how spectacularly wrong timing and place were. And he didn’t care. 

He wanted – he needed John. His breath, his skin, his touch. He knew about craving, about yearning something so much that it overtook everything else: whether it was knowledge, or to stop seeing, hearing, observing everything at once, or even craving that one perfect hit of cocaine that made his limbs loose, and made things tolerable. Yearning, craving. But that was different. 

He needed John, he needed to feel him, right then – in that very room, or else – 

John’s breath, hot, burning against his skin when he broke the kiss and took in big gulps of air. He was trembling in his arms, their bodies fitting perfectly, despite the differences, and Sherlock could feel the molasses melting away, could feel his mind, could see things with crystal clear clarity and it was a welcome respite, after days of feeling like a stranger in his own skin. 

John’s hands, on his shoulders. Their chests pressed flush against each other’s. Pain, dancing on his skin, unimportant, distant. It was irrational, and even he could see how wrong it was, that didn’t stop his hands from roaming, trailing down John’s back – too many layers of clothes between them and on the front, to John’s zipper, wanting to touch, to feel.

“Sherlock…” John panted against his jaw, “wait…” 

John, always trying to do the right thing, always trying to protect him. How could he not see that he didn’t have to, now? They had moved, somehow, ended up on the bed (Bennett’s bed, where he had slept, sought his pleasure while women and men downstairs were dying, climaxed because of that), and Sherlock needed to feel John. Flesh and brain and muscles and blood and heart and everything that made him who he was (but who was he, really? It was not a philosophical question; it was a genuine enquiry for which he did not have an answer.). 

“I would have burned this house down, had the situation been reversed.” Sherlock whispered, his body pressed flush against John’s, his own body responding to John’s arousal. His fingers were ghosting over the flesh underneath John’s briefs.

He wanted. He wanted so much. 

“I would have torn Bennett from limb to limb. I will destroy the people behind him, and I would have stayed there, with you. I still don’t understand, John…” John’s skin was hot against his lips and maybe the man was holding too tight onto him, maybe they both were, but Sherlock could not have moved if he had wanted to. 

John took his face in his hands and for a moment, just one moment, it wasn’t John’s hands and the touch didn’t feel gentle, loving. He blinked. He was not broken; he would not be the prey of flashbacks. His mind was stronger than that. 

He was stronger than that! John must have noticed (smelled it on him? Felt his arousal deflate?) because he sprung up from the bed, zipping his jeans (and Sherlock glimpsed John’s erected penis – and he honestly didn’t remember when he had pulled it out from his briefs, when he had touched it – he only remembered the heat and how good it had felt and how he had wanted more) and asked, “Sherlock, is everything all right?”

“Yes. Fine.” Sherlock replied. His body betrayed his words. He moved too stiffly, too slowly, feeling the loss of contact with John almost as a punishment, yet nothing showed in his voice when he said, “There is nothing useful here. The only things that really mattered to Bennett were downstairs.”

“Sherlock -” John trailed. He was concerned. John the doctor was concerned about the stitches on his body (he was not made of porcelain, he was not broken. He wasn’t even bleeding, was he?). John the friend – almost lover, end and beginning of his life and heart – was worried that he had triggered him somehow. As if he had been the one kissing him, stealing his air to breathe and think and had pushed him on the bed and taken his erected member in his hand.

God. What had he turned himself into? What was he doing to John?

“I’m fine!” He said and when John moved, he stopped him, saying in a clipped tone, “Do you really want to hear what I deduced about Herman Bennett from this room? Do you want to know how many times he brought himself to climax imagining what he would do to his chosen victims? Perhaps you will be interested in knowing that -” 

Once upon a time, before John, before – he had started to solve cases, before the drugs, he had lashed out like that, out of fear – of the unknown. Of his body, which still wasn’t merely transport, of his confused feelings _(sentiment,_ had been there, not like with John – because he hadn’t known John, he hadn’t know what real feelings could do to a person).

He had been called a cocktease, a bastard, a fucking psychopath. He had been young, scarless. He had been – flayed by words and he had learnt to do the same, and as it always happened, he had mastered that skill, to the point that hurting people had become extremely easy for him. Even when he didn’t really mean to. 

John. John did not react at his words. John still looked worried. John hadn’t left his side, John had told him that he was in love with him, and he had meant it. John hadn’t asked any questions. John would not ask any questions until he felt he was ready to answer. And his answers would hurt him too. And Sherlock felt humbled. And tired, and so desperately in love that he wanted to take back the last few minutes – even if it meant not having kissed John, not having touched him. 

“Why there is nothing personal here?” John said, as if Sherlock hadn’t tried to hurt him with his words, as if he hadn’t kissed him in that room, on that bed, and hadn’t been ready to do more, as if he hadn’t flinched and hadn’t talked, and Sherlock was grateful to John, and that too was humbling; it tore through what was left of the molasses enveloping him and slowing him down – bringing him into the present, into what really mattered: the people behind Bennett. The ones responsible for everything. Yet, John was right: there were no personal effects in that room.

Sherlock looked around. He had noticed already, he knew that there were no personal items in that room, in that house. It was nothing new for him. But – it could be useful. What John didn’t understand, what no one, except for Mycroft understood, was how unimportant Herman Bennett was in the great scheme of things. He was a psychopath, but psychopaths were dime a dozen.

He had killed people – but people died all the time. Everyone could potentially become an assassin. Killing was not that difficult. 

He had tortured him – but he hadn’t been the first to get there. Bennett’s way of hurting him had been more _personal,_ but – it did not matter, not really. No. He needed the people who were behind Herman Bennett – those who had ties with Moriarty, those who had spied on him ever since his return. He needed to know that he had not failed, that it had been worth it.

And John – he needed him away from Bennett. There was something inherently wrong in having John in that house, breathing the same stench he was breathing. And he was ashamed of having kissed him in that room, of having used John like that.

John was talking, and Sherlock had to rely on the pain in his right hand to focus, to really listen to his words.

_ A musician’s hand – a woman’s.  _

“But this doesn’t make sense!” John exclaimed, “He _lived_ here, he had a job, a normal life – he only started killing a few  months ago!” It was the perfect excuse. 

Yes, he had made a promise to John. But keeping him away from Bennett was more important. He should also apologise. But apologizing would pave the way to words he could not utter. Not yet. 

He chose to ignore how badly things had gone in the past when he had lied and deceived John. Images of John in a pool, wearing a semtex vest sprung up to his mind. Was he already in love with John when it happened? He wasn’t sure, it felt like John had always been part of his life, he felt like he had loved him long before his mind had caught up with his heart.

“John,” He said, interrupting him. John’s arguments about Bennett were solid and they would do. He would make them do. “I need you to find out more –“ Sherlock said. 

He was sure Mycroft’s people were already investigating and Mycroft would give him access, far away from Bennett’s location.

“You want to see Bennett alone.” John said. 

His voice was hard, he had heard that particular hitch in his voice before, directed at him, and he hated to hear it, while he could still taste John between his lips, when he hated that he had to play the game, when he wanted nothing more than annihilate the past week and go back to the night they had first kissed – except that he would not send John away. He would not care about right and wrong, he would not make the same mistakes.  

“Want? No, I don’t. But you are right, you can’t be there.” Sherlock said. 

And later, much later, he would think back about that conversation, he would think about John’s words about Bennett and how it didn’t make any sense that there weren’t any personal belongings in that house and how right John had been. He would admit how illogical and scared and irrational and utterly human he had been – because he would need to be the exact opposite, he would need to come back – alone, completely and utterly alone .- and observe, deduce, be himself because it would really matter. It would be personal. 

John nodded, “I don’t like it, Sherlock.” He said. 

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock rolled his eyes when agent Harris got in. Perhaps he should have said something to John – but there wasn’t really time, and the timing of their burgeoning relationship was terrible, because it made him even more vulnerable. He didn’t tell John that he didn’t like it either. He didn’t tell him that he had been a selfish prat when he had kissed him in that room – and later he would want to apologise for the words he had not said, for those he had never said. But that would come later. 

While sunlight was shining into Bennett’s room, highlighting how bare it was, how essential, Sherlock felt like on the ledge of St. Bart’s while talking to John. He smelt chlorine and madness and cheap shampoo like in the pool when Moriarty showed him that yes, he had a heart. No, it was not just a muscle, no it was not a figure of speech – it could burn, he could feel it burning at the idea of John dying.

Harris left the room, and Sherlock realized that he hadn’t even heard what the man had said. He did not care. 

“So – I guess it’s settled. You don’t want me there.” John said.

“He will use –”  _No._ He stopped talking. He owed John some honesty. “I don’t want you to hear what happened in the basement from him.” He said. 

And that was the truth – at least part of it. Bennett would hurt John with his words, he would fill his lungs with filth and that stench (urine, stale blood, bile, bleach, _semen_ and dirty water) and Sherlock could not, would not allow that.

“I know what happened.” John said.

His eyes were big and he looked pale, he looked like he hated himself – like he blamed himself for what had happened, which was ludicrous. Surely John could not blame himself for what had happened, could he? Time stood still – ripe with questions Sherlock did not know how to ask. He saw the way John clenched and unclenched his hands against his sides, he saw the way he looked at him, clinically, like the soldier he still was at heart – and then he said, “All right. But Sherlock – what happened here?”

“It will _not_ happen again. I promise.” Sherlock said quickly. 

John shook his head, “No, we need to talk about it – I can’t keep _hurting_ you.” 

If Sherlock were a better man, if he could not still smell that odious stench, if his hand did not throb so bloody much, he would have reassured John – he would have told him that he had not hurt him, that he had saved him, every day since they had met.

“Later.” He said instead, feeling like the parody of himself, something hollow and fake wrapped in designer clothes and an outrageously priced coat. “Just one thing, John Watson –” He heard himself say, without looking at him, with his hand on the doorknob. 

“What?” John asked.

If he were another man, a better man, he would know what to say and how to say it, perhaps. He would tell John that out of the two of them _he_ was the one who had willingly hurt the other (the reasons why were pure semantics at that point – facts were what mattered.); he would tell John about one night, in the arse end of the world, months after he had “died”, after Istanbul but before Chicago; he would tell him about a small house on a beach, about red, angry scars on his body and all the cocaine he could buy (and he had bought a lot: white and pure and cold and all _his)_ – despite Mycroft’s overbearing shadow. 

He would tell him how he had methodically prepared his dose and how in the end he had not used it, the needle tantalizingly hovering just above his skin, his mouth watering thinking of the reprieve, the quiet, the oblivion and then the rushes of colours and sensations he would feel. He would tell him that in the end he had not injected himself – for him. Because his job wasn’t over.

But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? A rationalization of pure sentiment. 

John had been half a world away, thinking he was dead, grieving 

_ You were the best man… And the most human…human being _

And Sherlock hadn’t heard the syringe hitting the floorboards. He had not heard anything that it wasn’t John Hamish Watson. John, at his grave, falling to pieces, asking him to stop being dead.

_ Don’t be dead. Would you do…? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this. _

And he had been back in London, for a moment, in that graveyard (and he hadn’t known back then how much he would miss John. He hadn’t even started to fathom the depths of his feelings for John.) He had realized it all in that small beach house, with its wooden floorboards, salt bleaching the wood of the windows panes, blue and green and nothingness wherever he looked. He had felt it all – sentiment, regret, loneliness and yearning, while cocaine littered a Formica table with one leg too short and the content of his syringe spilled on the floorboards and his scars throbbed. 

He would tell him that he had ended up walking on the beach and look at the stars – beautiful and so very, unnaturally bright, like that night in London; the night he might have first suspected that he was halfway in love with John. He had not touched the cocaine, not that night, not any night or day or month – not until the job was done, not until after he had seen John leading Mary in their first dance as husband and wife.

He turned, back in the present, in that bedroom, and looked at John, “You did not hurt me, John. Please, cease those inane thoughts at once. And now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He chose not to hear John’s words when he finally left the room. He didn’t even know whether John had really said anything.

Later, on the way to see Bennett, while Anthea briskly and efficiently tended to his right hand (he had drawn blood, tore stitches and needed new ones), and Mycroft, for once, didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at what Anthea was doing – and somehow his silence, the fact that his brother was not looking at him, not even with reproach, was making something in Sherlock’s chest tight and acrid he allowed himself to try and remember what John had told him as he left. He allowed himself to breathe and his mind couldn’t help going back to John’s face as he left the room.

John might have said something like, “be careful, Sherlock.” or “I love you.” Or “I’m sorry.” Sherlock would never know for sure – his mind had refused to register the man’s words.

_I can’t be careful, John. Not when they are playing this kind of game._

_I love you too, John. And I don’t understand how normal people can still breathe and exist and think and not go crazy when they are in love. I love you and this puts you at risk_.

_Don’t be, John. I should be the one apologizing. But I can’t. Not now_. 

He had to forget about John. He had to meet Herman Bennett. He had to be ready.


	11. Chapter 11 ~ The Woman In the Coat ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was he begging him to do? Listen to him? Look at him? Letting him go with him because they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and it was always the two of them against the rest of the world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive, I have not abandoned this story. Teaching to young, bright kids is fullfilling, but waking up at ass crack of dawn everyday is killing me:)  
> I'm still writing , I have a plot which I mapped out about 8 months ago, and I'm finishing ths!!  
> Stuff in italics are both John's dream and flashbacks.   
> Enjoy the update:)  
> Oh, I'll add some tags, so you might want to take a look at them

_Water. It was all around him. John was swimming; he was underwater, bright lights above him, behind him leading him. He must have been surprised by the tidal wave, but it didn’t matter._

_He needed to find Sherlock. He could feel the strength of the tide against his skin, between his fingers; he could see objects floating around him: a vase, fake poppies and a huge sunflower. He had seen those objects somewhere, but he didn’t (couldn’t) remember where or when._

_Sherlock. Sherlock was there, somewhere. Sherlock needed him. And John needed him as well. It was difficult to swim in that water, it felt oily against his skin and the current was strong, but John’s need to reach Sherlock was stronger. He knew that things would be okay when they were finally reunited._

_He stopped. He knew where he needed to go – it was dark in there, the bright lights didn’t arrive down there – but it didn’t really matter, did it? Sherlock was there and nothing could stop him. He had never backed down from danger, he wasn’t about to start now. He swam, feeling his body growing heavier and heavier as he got sucked inside that dark space and the bright lights above him faded. He didn’t care._

_He had to find Sherlock, that was the only thing that really mattered; he needed to know that he was all right, even if it meant swimming in that dark, narrow channel, pushing away objects as he went on: a few framed pictures (Joan was in them: bruised and bloodied, and scared), a red kettle floating upside down, a few forks and saucers._

_He doubled his efforts when he saw Sherlock; no. He didn’t exactly saw the man: he felt him, he knew it was him the same way he recognized his own image reflected in a mirror. He could only see Sherlock’s eyes: that mad, impossible kaleidoscope of hues that was staring at him (heterochromia iridis: blue, grey and gold and he had been lost the minute he had first really looked at the man’s eyes, even before he introduced him to a world of danger and giggles on crimes scenes and heartbreak and mad dashes through a London that had never been that bright, that alive to him until they met.)._

_Sherlock’s skin was perfect – it was a perfect canvas made of pale flesh and bones and muscles that trembled under his fingertips when he finally touched him. It was perfect. He was perfect and he was there._

_Sherlock. Naked._

_They were skin to skin, and John could feel the shudder running through the man’s body when his tongue trailed on his skin, flicking over and over on his torso, drawing patterns on his heated skin. It was always supposed to be like that: Sherlock and he, alone, without pretenses, without limits, no space between them and the rest of the world forgotten, unimportant._

_Sherlock was writhing against him; he could feel the man’s skin, feverishly hot and the taut muscles of his abdomen quiver under his fingertips. He was naked against him and pleasure, bliss, lust, love, were all coiling around them. Sherlock was his. He had always been. But… Why wasn’t Sherlock touching him back? Why wasn’t he saying anything? He needed to feel, to hear Sherlock._

_He needed to feel Sherlock’s hands on his body. He needed to taste him. He needed the man to say his name. He needed to feel those long fingers trace his body, he wanted Sherlock to cup his face in his hands and kiss him. He wanted – needed Sherlock’s lips on his body. He needed to kiss him. “Sssh…” He whispered against Sherlock’s lips; his fingers dug on the man’s hips. Sherlock’s taste was intoxicating; the only thing that would make it all even more perfect was if Sherlock talked, if he told him what he wanted._

“Tell me…” He whispered. He could feel – rather than see Sherlock’s body, slick and so warm against him. A noise. It came out low, hoarse from Sherlock’s throat, that pale column (there were bruises, weren’t they? Purple, blue and red, handprints against his creamy white skin – who did that? when?) he loved to kiss. Even though objects were floating around them and John could guess what they were, Sherlock and he weren’t floating, they were still, rooted to that spot, skin to skin.

_He kissed the spot just underneath his Adam’s apple, smiling against Sherlock’s skin. He loved the way he tasted (blood. There had been so much blood: sprays of it on the walls, arterial blood congealing against soundproofs boards, pools of blood on the floor, trails of crimson on a rack, big droplets of blood and skin on the flog on the floor, a white gauze oozing red and the smell of it: new and old, copper and ozone, strong and nauseating), he loved to hide his face in the crook’s of Sherlock’s shoulder (a hospital’s bed, the tv on mute and their bodies close, their fingers interlaced and his nose buried there, while he pretended to sleep, even if Sherlock knew – but he didn’t say anything, he didn’t mind.)._

_“Sherlock –“ He whispered, against the man’s lips._

“I made you beg only a few days ago!”

_But he didn’t want Sherlock to beg! Oh, God, no! He wanted – needed to hear his voice, he needed to look at him and hear from Sherlock how much the man wanted him, needed him. Sherlock’s pupils were blown, but – it wasn’t arousal, no – there was something else …something wrong, terribly out of place, horribly twisted – and he could not see, he couldn’t understand what it was._

_Sherlock. Naked and perfect and his against his body; the man’s skin slick and feverishly hot at the touch. Sherlock – was not moving. Why?_

“Oh, did you Mr. Bennett?” Sherlock’s voice was calm, a low rumble, not a hint of emotion in his demeanor, in his eyes. It was as if he was talking to a perfect stranger.

_He took a step back, fearing, for some reason, that he would fall or be swallowed down by the darkness surrounding them when he did. It did not happen. Sherlock did not move, which – was not good. Sherlock always vibrated with energy, he was always larger than life, even when he did not move._

_But now – he was too still, his eyes fixed on him and there was something… What… He could not understand._

“Truly, Sherlock, we can skip the formalities, don’t you think? And you are right: you didn’t beg, your mouth was sort of full.” Herman Bennett smirked, “Did your knees bruise a lot?”

_Sherlock. Naked. Bound. Manacles at his wrists and ankles. His torso a mess of red, black and creamy white skin, the bullet scar red, almost voracious, it looked like it wanted Sherlock to bleed out. It was Herman Bennett’s basement, he realized._

_He had only been in that hole once, but he would recognize that place anywhere. How had he missed it? Why?_

_“Sherlock?” He heard himself cry the man’s name, while he tried to free him from the manacles that were biting the delicate skin of his wrists. It wasn’t working; he saw the metal biting harder into Sherlock’s flesh._

_The more he tried to free Sherlock, the more blood oozed from seemingly hundreds of wounds. And he still didn’t talk, he still wasn’t saying anything. He could see him clearly, now: bruises, wounds that still had to scar (but they would. He would be there when doctors would patch him up, and Sherlock would refuse pain killers, even local ones.) and blood, so much blood._

_And Sherlock still wasn’t saying anything; his lips were pressed into a thin line, even if he could see the tendons of his neck and his pulse quickening. John was aware, now. It was a dream. It had to be – because Sherlock had got out of that basement. He had not seen him chained to the rack. Sherlock was bleeding, he still had not said a single word, and with the certainty that only came in dreams, he knew he had been the one who had hurt Sherlock. Which was ludicrous, he would never, ever hurt Sherlock. And yet he could not free him; his body was fused to that rack, he could see the steel of it disappearing into Sherlock’s flesh and run underneath his skin, like veins and arteries._

_It was a dream, just a bloody dream – and it was the worst kind of dream – one of those from which he could not wake up, it didn’t matter how hard he tried to. He touched Sherlock, even if he knew that it wasn’t real, even if his mind was awake, and recognized all the impossibilities of his surroundings. Something had happened. In that basement, yes. And after._

“So, which is going to be, Sherlock?” Bennett’s voice was filled with amusement. He licked his lips as he watched Sherlock in front of him.

“Neither.” Sherlock replied, his voice like steel, not a hint of emotion in it, “I don’t care. I am not playing.”

He wasn’t. He was done playing. He couldn’t recognize the man he was seeing in the monitor. Bennett didn’t seem to care, though. He laughed and said, “You are right. This is not a game, Sherlock. This is war.”

“Then go ahead. I don’t care.” Sherlock said.

Bennett was like oil, his movements, despite the restrictions, languid and deliberate. He didn’t care about the handcuffs, and the restraints. He was exactly where he wanted to be; he looked in control. “That is a lie, and we both know that, Jim didn’t believe it – I don’t believe it, and I know you in ways Jim only wished he did.”

“You never met Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock said. He did not deny Bennett’s words, though.

“Nevertheless I believe in him – and I didn’t lie. Speaking of truth: may I ask you a question?”

_Something had happened. Sherlock – he had gone to war. Alone. He had disappeared. Even if he was in front of him, now, and he wasn’t bound to that rack any more. The rack was in him: black, tattoos like scars all over his skin, coiling around his skin like snakes – and his lips were sealed shut, and the look in his eyes… John wished it was just the dream creating it – he wished it was his subconscious making up yet another terrible image, but it was not._

_Sherlock had indeed looked at him with ice in his eyes and something akin loathing in them, when he had found out that he had watched the interrogation._

_“I’m sorry!” He wanted to say, but it was not what was coming out from his mouth and at first it wasn’t even his own voice, it was Bennett’s,_ “Did I break you before or after I shagged you on the floor?”

_It was what Bennett had said, it was the words he had thrown at Sherlock, in a casual tone during the interrogation (and John needed to wake up – because that was like being in Afghanistan and watching Sherlock fall and hearing Mary’s words in that old house –it fucking hurt, it would hurt more when he woke up, but he wouldn’t have to hear and see and feel what he was feeling, now.)_

“Maybe I didn’t do it. Maybe somebody got there before I could!” _It was John’s own voice, and perhaps it shouldn’t matter to him that he was pinning Sherlock, holding his wrists up, speaking those words against the man’s skin (he could not feel its texture, thank God, and he was trying so hard to wake up, to tear himself away from that nowhere land.)_ “You followed me. You let me chain you – did you want it, Sherlock?”

_It was him and it was Bennett saying those words, finishing each other’s sentences._

“John! Wake up, mate!” _Greg – he was calling his name, he could hear him, far away from there (where it would hurt, he could already feel it: the burning in his chest, his lungs needing air, adrenaline making his blood burn in his veins – yes, God … he needed that! He had to wake up, he wanted to!) and he recoiled from Sherlock, he felt himself almost being physically ripped away from that place, from its darkness and the unnatural silence coming from Sherlock and he was grateful – even if he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock (because out there he had no idea about Sherlock’s whereabouts. He had no idea whether Sherlock was still angry at him – and if he was all right. He just didn’t know.)_  .

_Sherlock opened his mouth, finally. John saw the man’s lips moving, even if he was floating away from Sherlock. He couldn’t hear him, he wasn’t even sure whether Sherlock was actually talking._

“Why?”Sherlock asked and John could hear him, loud and clear. “I had thought you of all people would respect me, John.”

Sherlock’s voice was filled with contempt, and John had never heard that tone of voice coming from Sherlock directed at him.

“What happened to your hand?” John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s words (because he was right. Sherlock had asked him not to be anywhere near Bennett during the interrogation. He had given him reasons, honest reasons for once, and it had cost him to. And he hadn’t listened. )

_Sherlock was moving now. He was stretching his naked arms toward him, palms up and John could see the blood. There was so much blood, and even if he knew it was a dream, it didn’t stop him from reaching out to Sherlock._

_“Why did you do this to me?” Sherlock’s voice sounded so close, as if he was whispering those words in his ears. There was blood. There was so much blood. It was oozing out from the wounds on Sherlock’s body, it was trailing down from his hands, from the scars he could see so clearly, even if he was far away, and he could feel Greg, in the real world, touching him._

_“Why did you do this to me?” Sherlock repeated._

**_John stifled the scream he could feel bubbling up in his throat. He fought his way out of the dream, his lungs burning with breaths he knew he had held in his sleep, his limbs sore, as if he had fought or run, or both. Sherlock had left and he was bleeding, and it was his fault. It was all his fault._ **

 

* * *

 

 

 John knew from experience that he didn’t usually wake up screaming from his nightmares. That would be too easy, too _sane._ It wasn’t any different that time: he woke with a start – and, for a moment, he couldn’t recognize his surroundings, he didn’t remember where he was – and then it all rushed back: he was in Greg’s office, kipping on his couch, ordered to have some bloody rest under the threat of being sent home, because he had been awake for more than twenty four hours, and had been running on fumes for over a week and Greg could only take Sherlock being a right bastard, apparently.

It had been almost twelve hours since Sherlock had left the facility where Herman Bennett was held and had disappeared, without a trace. He had ditched his protection detail within the first twenty minutes after he had left, which had come to no surprise to him. Sherlock had barely acknowledged the presence of the two men assigned to protect him.

John suspected that he hadn’t cared, that he had indulged his brother, for once. But that had been before. Before he entered that office and knew. After that, all bets had been off. And it was his fault. All of it. Whatever happened or would happen to Sherlock and Joan Adams would be on him. Almost twelve hours. They were close to the deadline Bennett had given them.

_“You have twelve hours from the moment you leave this room. You’ll find the pretty doctor or we are going to be very, very naughty.”_

_“You have people here.” Sherlock said._

_Bennett had smiled, and John had wondered whether Sherlock felt the almost physical need to bash his head against the table, like he did. If he did it was impossible to tell. It was impossible to tell whether Sherlock was feeling anything at all. “We are everywhere, Sherlock!” Bennett said._

_He was not bluffing. He knew he was a pawn, he just didn’t care. If Moriarty had been a spider, Bennett felt honored to be just a thread of his web, one made with barbed wire and razors._

That had happened before. Before things went to hell, again. London was Sherlock’s. He knew Her, like the back of his hands. He knew how to disappear, how to let Her envelope him – and he had. Sherlock wasn’t even supposed to be outside the hospital, instead he had taken over himself the task to find Joan Adams. And it wasn’t because it was what Bennett had ordered him to do.

He had never said he had to do that alone. It was all Sherlock. It was because of what had happened between them in the facility. Greg was looking at him, and it took John a moment to remember that he had heard the man calling him, it had filtered and reached him even in his dream.

“What is it?” He asked.

He knew how he must look. It had been twelve long hours – and neither Scotland Yard nor Mycroft had found Sherlock. The Homeless network was loyal to Sherlock, they had refused to cooperate. They had been on their own. Sherlock’s last known location was Alyce Bradford’s home. He had followed the clue Bennett had given him and had visited the girl (and he must have hated it. Sherlock had not wanted to even meet her, after. He had offered himself up as a hostage in her place but had not wanted to hear her say thank you. Until Bennett had given him the clue)

_“Start with the sweet thing I was with when we first met.”_

_“Mr. Bennett –“_

_“You can call me Herman, you know? After all we’ve been intimate. Do you really want to…?”_

_“Stop wasting my time and overestimate your role in this, Mr. Bennett.”_

“I just talked to Sherlock!” Greg exclaimed.

God, he looked exhausted; poor Greg had been sucked into the events of the past week, and was running on fumes, just like them. He had been worried about Sherlock, and he didn’t even know what had happened in the hallway, he didn’t know that the reason Sherlock had disappeared was because of him, because of what he had done.

Greg must have been up for more than twenty four hours himself, and yet he had been the one who had all but forced him to kip on the couch because he had had enough of his sniping at everything that breathed.

“Where is he? Is he okay?” John asked. He was up in a moment, the images from his nightmare fading as he listened to Greg. He noticed William Moore outside the office, talking to one constable, he could see the man vibrating with nervous energy.

Sherlock had found Joan. He hadn’t said anything else to Greg, he had only given him an address, one Sherlock and he knew well. And that was the fact, only Sherlock and he knew the significance of that remote location.

_“Don’t even think about talking to me right now, John!” Sherlock spat._

_“Let me explain,” John said. Because he needed to. He needed Sherlock to understand. He needed him to understand how not okay things were for him._

_Sherlock had asked him not to be there – and he had ignored his request, and it didn’t matter that he really hadn’t had a choice, not when Mycroft had intervened and had all but kidnapped him and brought him to the facility. It wasn’t the first time they had both gone behind Sherlock’s back. Mycroft and he were not friends, they didn’t particularly get along, but they had one thing in common: they loved Sherlock. That, though, was not like the other times: it wasn’t like keeping an eye on him during danger nights or messing up Sherlock’s socks index while searching for his hidden stash of cocaine. It wasn’t even like ringing Mycroft because Sherlock had fallen off the wagon. Or, God forbid, agreeing to lying to Sherlock about Irene. It didn’t matter that he loved Sherlock more than he could say._

_It didn’t seem to matter to Sherlock, anyway. “I don’t need to hear it! Now, stop wasting my time and **fuck off!** ” Sherlock never swore, he never used profanity, therefore those words coming from him were like a slap in the face. John had recoiled at Sherlock’s words and had been too numb to do anything when Sherlock turned and stalked away._

_“I’m sorry.” John said._

God, he knew, now. He knew what Sherlock must have felt when he decided to fake his suicide. He had known the risks, he had known that it was wrong, that it would hurt him if and when he knew the truth, but he had gone ahead anyway with his plan, because – because he had felt that it was the right thing to do, regardless of the consequences.

_Sherlock flinched. He had seen him talk to Herman Bennett, he had seen him remain absolutely calm, composed (but he had also had trouble recognizing him, in some moments, was it how he had survived for two years? He had looked dangerous, his instincts had told him that the man who was talking to Herman Bennett was not the same who had asked him to sit on the bed with him, the night before, and had pretended not to care that he had dozed off with his head hidden in the crook of his shoulder.)._

_Sherlock had not flinched once while in the same room with the man who had tortured and raped him (and it was easy to say the words, now. Mycroft had been right about that, at least.), but his words, *he* had made Sherlock flinch. Sherlock didn’t turn, he didn’t look at him when he said, “I don’t care!”_

“I don’t know, mate.” Greg said, and he sounded almost apologetic.

And John tried not to feel hurt, he really did. He tried to rationalize that what it mattered was that Sherlock was alive and that he had found Joan Adams before the deadline. But – it hurt. Sherlock had played the game or, as Bennett had said, he had entered war.

_“As a sign of goodwill, I’m also giving you a choice: either the location of the first victim or a clue to find the pretty doctor.” Herman Bennett said._

_He turned, so that he was facing the camera and said, “And you can do whatever you want with me, but that is all I’m going to say.”_

_“Because that is all you know.” Sherlock said._

_John saw the flicker of surprise passing through Bennett’s eyes, before the man turned to look at Sherlock._

_“Did you even kill those people, Mr. Bennett? Or are you just a glorified pawn?” Sherlock asked._

_And John had stopped even trying to predict what he would say or do next. It was like being stuck in the middle of a train wreck. He could only watch. He could only hope it would end soon. He wondered what Mycroft was thinking, but when he looked at the man at his right, he wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t say. Mycroft was unreadable, as ever._

_“You were there with me, Sherlock. You know what I can do. Meanwhile make your choice. The dead body or the doctor?”_

_“The clue.” Sherlock said, “I’ll take the clue.”_

_Not the person. Sherlock was making it very clear that it was all about the case._

_That he was not playing the game for Joan Adams. Herman Bennett grinned and John was happy that he wasn’t in that room because nothing on Earth would have stopped him from killing him, especially when the man said, “That’s my boy…”_

_Bennett reached over Sherlock. He couldn’t get to him, because he was stopped by the handcuffs, but Sherlock seemed completely unfazed both by the man’s words and his movements._

_“Come closer.” Bennett ordered. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “Truly, Mr. Bennett. Don’t overestimate our time together. You are merely a messenger.”_

 

John knew he would owe Greg forever, because the man didn’t even try and stop him from following them. Greg put his foot down with William Moore because, MI6 or not, he was a civilian whose fiancé had been kidnapped. Because he had seen all the pictures sent to Moore’s mobile phone. And Moore didn’t know what Bennett had said, how he had described what would happen to Joan if Sherlock didn’t do what he asked him to do.

It had taken them a couple of hours to understand that they were marking Joan’s skin, carving her flesh – and he had been almost thankful that Sherlock wasn’t there when they all understood that they were carving Sherlock’s name on Joan’s skin over and over. Sherlock might not care – or pretend he didn’t, John couldn’t be sure, but he had seen the effect those pictures had had on seasoned officers and a former MI6 agent, and on him. Joan Adams was an innocent woman who was being tortured while they waited for Sherlock to find her.

William had kept it together. He had refused to leave, and he must have pulled some strings, or called in some favors, because the initial protests from Greg died down quite quickly. William Moore was apparently better than him at obeying orders, because he didn’t protest. He didn’t insist. He didn’t need to tell John anything, he just looked at him: big blue eyes hidden by round spectacles, deep bruise like shadows under his eyes and John knew that the man would follow them, by foot if necessary. The worst thing was that it didn’t matter.

He didn’t care, and part of him hated how selfish it made him feel, but he needed to see Sherlock. He needed to know that he was alright, that he hadn’t put his body through too much stress (he was probably running a fever, walking a few meters too much had been hell on him just 24 hours before. He was probably dehydrated, and his scars were still fresh and he felt like he would go crazy any minute, now.).

He barked orders to the forensic team, even though he was not a cop, and talked to the paramedics before they all left. Sherlock had only said that Joan was alive and had given the address. He doubted he had said anything else to Greg, or the man would have told him. He should have known. He should have known that things would go pear shaped. Her should have known that Sherlock would not forgive him for that.

Sherlock had not objected to him staying during his medical exams. He had had no troubles letting him hear how long it had taken Herman Bennett to carve Moriarty’s name on his chest while he talked to both Greg and the plastic surgeon – he had clammed up and kept him out only with the other things.

 

_“He wants to protect you. Your well-being is what matters the most to him. Or, one might argue, he might be ashamed.” Mycroft said._

_“Ashamed of what, exactly?” John said, “That he was –“_

_“Raped. You can’t even say the word, John. Do you honestly believe my brother hasn’t noticed that?” Mycroft enquired._

_He hated how matter of fact Mycroft’s voice was. And he wasn’t fooled. He knew that he cared – he had all but kidnapped him, while he was still in Herman Bennett’s house with Greg, and he hadn’t missed the way he had looked around, the contempt and cold hatred he had seen lurking just beneath his calm demeanor._

_“Do you think this is my fault?” John asked._

_“No, of course not.” Mycroft replied, and John was tempted to just open the car’s door and get out of there, it didn’t matter that they were on the road to the facility where Herman Bennett was held._

_“I truly don’t, John. You said you would not leave, I see you are not wearing your wedding ring any more, therefore you made up your mind, at long last. But you will have to forgive me if I still harbor some doubts, especially –“_

_“I was only trying to protect him!” John snapped, “You know how he is!”_

_“I know that my brother can be self destructive, but self harm, just for the sake of it, has never interested him.”_

It felt like déjà vu, being in that car with Greg. Except that neither men spoke; Greg didn’t offer any reassurance, didn’t bring back anything from the past, apologies about what had happened before Sherlock faked his suicide. John didn’t feel like talking, and Greg was simply too tired to even attempt to have a conversation. It also felt different, because he knew that Sherlock was alive, he had disappeared by his own choice, that time.

He had found Joan Adams like he had told William Moore he would do. He had been alone, because he still believed that “alone protects me” bullshit, and he had given him an excuse, a valid one to revert to that behavior. It didn’t matter that he had initially wanted to honor his request, that he had resigned himself to spend hours sorting through piles of files, pretending that he was doing something useful because Sherlock had asked him to, because after what had happened in Herman Bennett’s bedroom he would have done anything he asked him to do.

It didn’t even matter that he had told Mycroft that Sherlock didn’t want him anywhere near Bennett during the interrogation. It was different. Time didn’t slow down, even though he felt like he was still stuck in his nightmare, he felt high strung, his skin itched and he missed his gun, the comforting weight of it. He still remembered that place.

It was hard to forget that place, that abandoned warehouse where Irene Adler had shown up, revealing that she wasn’t dead, after all. He felt his blood boil in his veins. That place was huge, and Sherlock had gone there on his own.

Who were those people? How could they know so many things about them?

Jim Moriarty was dead, he had no doubts about that. He had blown his head off and even if the first few days after Sherlock’s fake suicide were blurred in his mind, he remembered hearing Mycroft at the funeral, telling him that Jim Moriarty had killed himself. Of course they had been standing over a empty hearse when Mycroft had told him, but he had seen how much Mycroft really cared for his brother, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, he wouldn’t doubt Mycroft’s loyalty once again. The first man he saw was handcuffed to a radiator, he was unconscious, he had been hit on the head with something heavy. That was just the beginning.

He followed Greg; and John could see Sherlock’s presence – in the way the lights had been tampered with. There had been an explosion, John could still smell the chemicals Sherlock had used; there must have been a lot of noise and smoke. He noticed cameras in various points (they hadn’t been there the last time he had been in that place, it must have been a recent addition. So Joan’s kidnapping had been programmed. How long had they spied on the woman? How long had they planned for that sick game?), some of them had been broken, but others were still working, and John knew it hadn’t been a mistake on Sherlock’s part. He had wanted the people who were playing that game to know he had got there in time.

Sherlock had wanted those people to see what he was really capable of. He followed Greg and the other yarders, feeling on the battlefield, for a moment. It was not like the last time, when Sherlock had been in Bennett’s basement. There was blood, though – John’s senses were hit with it: the red of it, its smell, so strong and sharp. It wasn’t Sherlock’s blood. He knew that, even before they finally entered the main warehouse.

Of course it had to be that particular room: huge and cold, smelling of mould, stale water and piss.

_Are you jealous?_

_We are not a couple._

_Yes you are._

_I’m **not** gay._

_Well, **I** am – and look at us both._

There were four men lying dead on the floor; the one closest to the door had had his neck snapped (images of a CIA operative beaten to a pulp before being thrown out of a window sprung up to John’s mind.). The other men had been shot, it all must have happened very quickly – and Sherlock had had all the time to call for backup – and yet he hadn’t. He had acted on his own and John could glimpse what Sherlock’s life must have been like during the two years he had been away.

Mycroft had promised him he would answer to any question he might have regarding the years Sherlock had spent dismantling Moriarty’s criminal empire. It had happened on the way to the facility where Herman Bennett was held.

_“I will share with you whatever you deem necessary, but John, I told you once: physical pain has never been an issue for Sherlock.” Mycroft said._

_“Have you taken a look at your brother’s back recently?” John said._

_He was surprised by how calm his voice came out from his mouth, because he was feeling anything but. Sherlock had messed his right hand while they had been together and he hadn’t even noticed! He had been like a man possessed in Herman Bennett’s bedroom and John felt like he would never be clean again. What had he done?_

_“Unlike you, John, I have been aware of Sherlock’s injuries since the beginning. And I will answer your questions, if you deem it necessary – but I suggest to focus on the present.”_

_“Why did you let him –“ John trailed. And he honestly didn’t know what he was referring to: Sherlock’s two years spent dismantling Moriarty’s criminal empire or allowing Sherlock to talk to Herman Bennett._

_“You should know, by now, that one can’t really stop Sherlock when he puts his mind into something.”_

Greg didn’t tell him not to move, not to contaminate the scene; he didn’t know what had happened in that hallway, but he was not stupid, he might not know the details, he might not have seen Sherlock leaving, stalking away from him, his body vibrating with anger and betrayal, but he knew them. There was a built in space, right at the centre of the room: black panels – the background of all the pictures and videos featuring Joan Adams.

Sherlock must be in there, he knew that even before he followed Greg inside. Sherlock had not said a word, he ought to know they were there, he must have heard them even before Greg spoke, announcing his presence, going by the book, as always, but he had not uttered a sound. He was a doctor, he was a soldier, and having nerves of steel was second nature for him – he was thankful for his training, because it took over.

He moved, entering the make-shift room with Greg and the paramedics; Joan was sitting on a crate, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat; somehow seeing Joan for the first time, made it all even more real. She was not the blond woman apparently chosen for her name and profession. She was not the smiling woman he had seen in the pictures in her flat, or the one he had seen in the videos.

She was real: pale, thin, naked underneath the coat, bleeding and bruised – but alive. She was keeping her lids tightly shut, her face hidden in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. She started when she heard them entering, but didn’t open her eyes, didn’t otherwise acknowledge their presence and John thought that if her fingers weren’t broken she would probably be hanging onto Sherlock in that moment.

Sherlock – who was letting her hide her face against his skin, who had given her his coat and was keeping one hand on her knee, in a comforting gesture. Sherlock tilted his head up, glossing over him and acknowledging Greg with a nod of his head. He whispered something in Joan’s ear and he saw the woman nodding her head, but making no attempt to move away from Sherlock.

John clenched his jaws; pushing away the maelstrom of feelings that he could feel skimming just beneath the surface; that woman needed medical help, whatever the situation with Sherlock was it would have to wait.

 

_“How many stitches?” Herman Bennett said, a light smile playing on his lips. He didn’t look like a convict. He didn’t look like someone who would spend the rest of his life in prison; he looked like he was having fun, like he was genuinely happy to see Sherlock sitting in front of him._

_Sherlock, on his part, didn’t miss a beat. “Ninety two.” He said, as if they were talking about the weather._

_“It must be hell sleeping on your back.” Bennett replied, mock concern in his voice. He cocked his head on a side and said, “But that’s a lie – it’s more than 92. I smell iodine –“_

_Sherlock actually smiled at his words. “How clichéd, Mr. Bennett. Even I watched ‘Silence of the Lambs’”_

_“With your doctor?” Bennett said and winked at him, “You marathoned James Bond movies together. How awfully domestic of you.”_

_“Not at all. Shall we start talking?” Sherlock said._

_“But we are talking, aren’t we? And don’t change the subject. You are not calling the shots here, Sherlock.”_

_“And you are alive only because I am allowing it, do not forget that.” Sherlock said._

_Bennett chuckled, “Oh, no.” He said, “I am alive because I know things; a lot of things. Knowing is owning, ever heard that?”_

_John couldn’t help taking a step back. How did he know that? How could he know?_

_“I know where the bodies are buried, and do not forget about our dear friend Jim. Do you remember Jim, Sherlock?”_

 

“Miss Adams.” John said, crouching in front of the woman. The paramedics were behind him, waiting for his instructions. He was focusing on the woman, who was clearly in shock (which was good, in a way, at least she couldn’t feel pain, yet.). “I’m doctor Watson, the ambulance is right outside. We are going to take care of you.” The woman looked at him, blinking her eyes, trying to focus on the words he had just said.

“How is William?” She croaked. Somehow it didn’t surprise John that her first words were about the man she loved.

Somehow it made perfect sense, because he would have done the same – and even _he_ was getting which kind of game they were playing.

“He is fine.” He said, fixing her with his gaze, that seemed to make her more lucid, she nodded her head while he continued, “You will see him soon, I promise!"

He kept his voice soft, even, it was the tone he used on patients (had he used it with Sherlock for the past week? He wasn’t sure.), and it always worked. Joan nodded her head, but still didn’t move away from Sherlock. It was Sherlock who did; he whispered something to Joan who closed her eyes and nodded, then he got up, still ignoring him, and went outside, presumably to talk to Lestrade.

"He needs medical attention." Joan said after a moment.

Her voice was hoarse and he could see that she was making an effort to keep it steady. John could actually understand that, being a doctor was helping the woman not to think about what had just happened to her – how her career as a surgeon was probably over, at least judging by how badly broken her fingers were.

“I know,” He said, working on autopilot with the two paramedics who had entered the room when Sherlock had left.

He took a moment to look around, noticing that the room had been built so that it was impossible, or nearly so, to identify where it was located. There were neons hanging from the ceiling, which made Joan look even paler than she was. The room smelled of plastic, blood and sweat. He could feel panic, for some reason, closing in on him.

“He should be in a hospital. I think he might have torn some stitches.” Joan said, breaking (thankfully) his train of thoughts.

“He should, yes. I’ll –“ John stopped in mid sentence. He doubted Sherlock would let him anywhere near him, at least in the immediate future; nevertheless he probably needed a doctor. “He will be visited at the hospital.” He said eventually, hating how cold his voice sounded.

He looked at the woman, trying to smile reassuringly, but he doubted she noticed. What she noticed, right away, what was impossible to ignore, was William Moore’s voice: it echoed in the warehouse, and Joan came alive the moment she heard William calling her name; it tore through the haze of shock (she would probably be in a lot of pain very soon), and she started, looking around. John exchanged a glance with the paramedics, and together they worked quickly on Joan, who was straining to hear William, she clearly wanted to cry his name, but apparently she couldn’t.

He heard Sherlock, right outside the room, his voice was firm, but it still had that gentle quality that he had used with William when they had first talked to him – _God,_ it felt like it had happened so long ago, it felt like it had just happened, and John wanted Sherlock to come in, he wanted to talk to him, he wanted the man to look at him (and how he had never noticed that having Sherlock’s undivided attention was so addictive? How had he even thought that he could live without?) and forget about what had happened in the facility.

Sherlock did not come into that room – William Moore did, and John saw the scene in front of him unfolding, almost like in a movie: how William and Joan locked gazes and moved toward each other, apparently oblivious of all the other people filling that small space; he saw William cradling Joan's face in his large hands and the way the woman's chin trembled with the effort to hold back tears, and William was doing the same, he saw the reverent way with which William touched her, mindful of her injuries but, at the same time, unable to stop himself from making sure that she was really there, alive, with him (and God, he could relate to _that,_ he had been there, lost in Sherlock's eyes, wanting to touch him more than he actually cared about breathing and not quite doing that, because they were who they were, and he was a bloody idiot).

"Mr. Moore -- William." John said in a gentle voice, "We need to bring Joan to the hospital."

For a moment he wasn't sure whether the man had heard him, he was completely focused on Joan, taking in every detail about her, he eventually replied without even looking at him and said,

"Of course." He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead and whispered something in her ear, Joan nodded her head and stepped back, allowing the two paramedics to help her.

"She's a terrible patient." William said shaking his head, as Joan rolled her eyes, but accepted to lie on a gurney as she was brought out of the room. They were alone in the small room, now.

John could hear Sherlock outside, talking to Lestrade and to Joan, for a moment, but he still didn't come back. He was avoiding him.

"Did he kill them all?" William asked. John looked at him for a moment.

The truth was that he didn't know, he had no idea whether the man handcuffed to a radiator was just unconscious or dead. He didn't know whether there had been other people in the warehouse that Sherlock had already disposed of.

"I don't know." He admitted.

"He gave me his word that he would find Joan..." William said...and John felt that the man wasn't telling him everything - or, perhaps, he was still too stunned with relief.

"He keeps his word." He said. Sherlock Holmes didn't make promises unless he was sure he could keep them. Sherlock had gone to Bennett's house first, and then to the facility after promising a man he didn't even know that he would save his fiancee. And he had. Joan was wearing Sherlock's coat, she was hurt, but she was alive. Sherlock Holmes didn't believe that heroes existed, but he was a bloody good one when he wanted to.

 

_"I must say I was impressed when you took the girl's place. We didn't expect you'd care!" Bennett said with a hint of a smirk playing on his lips._

_Sherlock looked unimpressed both with Bennett and his words. And John wanted desperately to get into that room and wipe that mocking smirk from Bennett's face. "Make no mistake, Mr. Bennett. I don't care." Sherlock said._

_"But you want to save the nice doctors, hence your presence here, now. With me."_

 

"I didn't think he would." William admitted in a low voice, distracting John from his memories.

John didn't reply to him...because it would attract Sherlock's attention, because Joan was wearing his coat, and he had touched her in a comforting manner. Had Sherlock seen the scars on the woman's body? Had he seen his name carved on her flesh over and over?

"John..." William said. And John didn't like the tone of the man's voice.

"What?" He said.

"I knew where he was. He kept me updated." William said.

 

_"Sherlock, wait!" John said._

_He was not the kind of man who ran after people begging to be heard, he was not the kind of man who talked about feelings and all that sort of things, and yet here he was, running after Sherlock, who was stalking toward the elevator, his words, his use of profanity still hovering over them, heavy as leaden._

_He didn't touch Sherlock, he didn't grab his arm forcing him to stop, to turn around and look at him. He knew how much of a bad idea touching him would be at the moment._

_"Please." He said, when Sherlock slowed his pace._

_What was he begging him to do? Listen to him? Look at him? Letting him go with him because they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and it was always the two of them against the rest of the world?_

_He didn't know. Sherlock, anyway, turned levelling him with a cold look, the kind of looks that made grown yarders step back._

_"What for?" Sherlock hissed, "I don't have time for this. I don't care. Don't even think about following me. Pass along the message to my brother. Stay away from me!"_

_He had already told Sherlock that he was sorry -- and God helped him, he was. Sherlock had told him that he didn't care, but it had been a lie. He wasn't lying now. "Have I made myself clear, John?" Sherlock said._

_He moved, shortening the distance between them. And sometimes John forgot that Sherlock's figure could be imposing, that even though his mind was his best weapon, Sherlock was also a strong man. And he had never, not once used his height and figure as a mean of intimidation, not with him. He was doing it now. And John could still hear all the ways Bennett had taunted and tried to humiliate Sherlock during their meeting._

_He could still see the way Sherlock had lost it in Bennett's bedroom...and how, unbeknownst to him, he had tore the stitches in his hand (the one Magnussen had touched, as Mycroft had told him), so he let Sherlock do it._

_He let him be in control._

_"Be careful." He said, after a long moment of silence._

_Sherlock smirked. "I am not a child needing to be coddled, John."_

_It was a test...it was Sherlock pushing his buttons, seeing if he would try and stop him. He didn't._

 

"What?" John said.

William shrugged his shoulders, "He asked me to look after you, when we were alone...and he gave me updates."

"Why didn't you tell us?" John said.

"Because there was some kind of code Bennett told him during their meeting. He had to do it alone or Joan would die...and you'd be in danger."

And of course Sherlock chose that exact moment to enter the room.

He exchanged a long glance with William Moore, the former MI6 agent nodded his head and left the room and John wanted to sit down, he wanted to punch Sherlock for, once again, not telling him things, for going on his own and putting himself at risk.

"I don't need to go back to the hospital." Sherlock said.

"Which one is the medical doctor here?" John said.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, considering his words, but said, "I'm not spending another night at the A&E."

"Oh, shame - because that's exactly where we are going." John huffed.

And he felt like he could breath again, because that was familiar. That was the two of them bickering after a case.

"I want to go home." Sherlock said.

 _What about us?_ Was on the tip of John's tongue. But he didn't want to force the issue with Sherlock.

"A&E first." John said. He gestured at the door, but Sherlock didn't move for a moment.

"We need to talk." Sherlock said.

And John felt relief wash over him, so strongly that it made him dizzy. Sherlock noticed because he said, "You are pale, when did you last eat?"

John blinked, first of all he honestly didn't remember when his last meal had been and he could count on one hand, with digits to spare, the number of times Sherlock had paid attention to those sorts of things.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his apparent confusion, and said, "I was led to believe that _partners_ do express those kind of concerns."

 _But...aren't you angry at me?_ He thought.

"Let's go, John --- the sooner we finish at the A&E, the sooner we can go home."

And despite his nightmares, despite the harsh words Sherlock had said in that hallway, despite the twelve hours of anguish he had put them all through, John sort of fell in love with Sherlock Holmes all over again.

That didn't mean that they didn't need to talk, that there weren't issues to hash through, but they were going _home,_ at last.


	12. Chapter 12 ► Alone protects me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What makes you think that I can live without you?" John said - and Sherlock felt breathless because...because that was John: he was strong, a fighter, he was the bravest person he had ever met!  
> And he had survived while he had been away, he had grieved (more than he ha  
> d expected and more deeply than he thought he would, but the alternative: John dead, shot by one of Moriarty's snipers had been simply not feasible.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!! Still alive, still writing :) We're about halfway through the fic. Sorry for the long wait between updates and THANK YOU to those who left kudos and comments!!!  
> ETA: to correct some mistakes (I don't have a beta) and to add a note at the end of the chapter.

_Fire. He must have lit a fire. He couldn't remember when._

_Sherlock knew it must be cold outside, those places in the middle of nowhere, in the former Soviet union, were all cold, with vast skies and men and women he needed to get close to in order to reach his goal._

_If he had wasted any time looking at himself in the mirror he would have noticed how long his hair had got, how pale he looked. He was not thin, that much he knew. There had been too much time spent trying to make his transport strong, efficient. He didn't waste any time, though._

_Well...He had; his mind, his best weapon, had been stuck on images, sounds..._

_Domesticity...with John. Laughing with his flatmate. Playing the violin as John read the paper. Having breakfast together in their sitting room._

_Had he been happy? Was that how being happy felt like? The noise outside the old, abandoned house he was hiding in tore him away from those musings._

_Time to be the East Wind. Time to pluck out the unworthy. With a sigh (and a fleeting image of John and he, in his mind palace, eating crisps while watching crap telly) he moved._

They had forgot who he was. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was _not_ a fragile creature. He was _not_ a victim. He was not to be used as a pawn. He was _not_ broken.

_The room smelled of pot, sweat and stale beer. Good. Drugged thugs were easy to face, their coordination was usually abysmal. He needed a name, one of Jim' Moriarty's men and they would give it to him. He moved silently._

_Mycroft had provided him with good Intel. Mycroft was not in that room, though. He would sweep away what he left behind, after. Mycroft would not tell him about John and he would not ask. Caring was not an advantage, after all._

_Did Mycroft know that he had fallen off a building for an army doctor?_

_Did he suspect that he would do it again in a heartbeat?_

The worst thing, the inconceivable, unforgivable thing was that, for a short while, _he_ had forgot as well. It was inexcusable; it didn't matter that there had been days spent at the hospital, those had been a necessary evil. Body was transport, but it needed to be in peak condition to work and his had been not. He was aware of that. He had accepted that (not that there had truly been a choice in the matter).

He had forgot that he was more than the man who had willingly followed Herman Bennett in the basement. He was more than the body that had been Bennett's plaything for eight hours.

He had forgot that he was, simply put, _more._

He was more than the others: the Herman Bennetts, the nameless men, thugs for hire, who had kidnapped and tortured a blonde doctor just to try and play mind games with him.

_"Not good, Sherlock." John, the John in his mind, remarked._

_No. He supposed that blinding someone to weaken, confuse and scare them in order to get information was not good. He also supposed that there might have been other ways to get what he needed; more elegant, less ripe with screams and physical pain._

_As a general rule he didn't particularly like violence, but he was running out of time. He had to reach the border before sunrise, he needed three names, therefore John (his heart) would have to accept that. He ignored the man's screams for a few seconds and then asked, again, "The names!"_

_The man babbled about not knowing anything. Sherlock sighed. Yes, he was running out of time, but he was resourceful.  There were many ways to hurt people, after all. He knew them all._

He supposed that he ought to thank Herman Bennett for that, for reminding him of the truth. It had been an appallingly careless strategic mistake from whoever was on top of that game.

Threatening John Watson (because he _had._ Because he had spent 480 minutes with that man, forced to listen to that pathetic sadist with delusions of grandeur, and had spent two days, beforehand, studying his handiwork, not to get his words and the meaning behind them.) had finally reminded him that they didn't know him. At all.

They had no idea of what he was really capable of. No one, except Mycroft, could even begin to fathom the depths he could go when it mattered. And John... _John_ mattered. And yes, he had promised he would not go in too deep. He had looked at John in the eyes and had promised him and had meant to honor his request at the time. He truly had.

Things, though, could not have gone any differently, he realized. Because he was playing a game meant to weaken, humiliate and break him ...and John, his John, was their weapon of choice. And that could not happen.

So, even though he had wanted him far away from Bennett, for irrational reasons, John had been there nevertheless, because -- Mycroft was a _prat,_ because he was worried _(disappointed._ His big brother had watched his assistant stitch him up in the car without saying anything, and how had he ever believed that he would not bring John to see, to learn, to know that he had gone to pieces and that he was facing the man who had kidnapped and tortured him while still bleeding from self inflicted wounds? Of course he would and he had!).

It had stung -- knowing that John had heard what Bennett had said, not because of the man's words, those had been poor attempts at taunting and playing games with him...because he might have had his penis in his mouth in that basement, but Herman Bennett was unimportant. He was an amateur at playing the game. He truly was a pawn in the great scheme of things and that was the only thing that mattered.

The game, the war was the only thing that deserved attention, even if he didn't want to be part of it, not that time, not with what was at stake. John, though, his John felt responsible. John had listened to the medical words, he had thought he had rationalized the data, but he (beautiful, normal, outraged and grieving for him) had not noticed the way he had clenched his jaws, the frustration mingled with relief (and fear, and hurt) whenever he hadn't been allowed to listen to his conversations with Lestrade.

Oh, yes, Lestrade was worried about him and Sherlock was grateful that the older man hadn't wasted anyone's time by saying out loud that he was sorry about what had happened. Lestrade had physically unchained him, he didn't need his platitudes. And thanking him would be redundant.

Sherlock might use words such high functioning sociopath to describe himself and he was usually uncaring of what normal people did and deemed appropriate in social contexts, but even he could see that saying, "Thank you for shooting Herman Bennett while he was about to penetrate my rear with a blunt object! Cheers!" would be sort of awkward.

John. He had deceived John; he had played the game the only way he knew how with him: _sentiment._ Not that he wasn't disappointed with him and he hadn't lied altogether to John in the hallway outside the room where he had watched his conversation with Mr. Bennett. He had been angry (and hurt), but sentiment (guilt) had made John stay away; it had kept him away from the game.

Because Mr Bennett was just a kog in a larger machine that needed to be tore down, it needed to be destroyed, but he was right on one thing: that was a war and John would not be collateral damage. Not again, not because of him.

Because _sentiment_ also meant that he would rather spend another eight hours in Bennett's basement, at his mercy, before putting John in any danger because of his feelings for him. Sentiment meant that he had manipulated John -- and he hated the way Mycroft had been helpful, how he had used a minor occurrence to allow him to keep John safe.

He had lost control, he could see it clearly, now -- he had felt like drowning in a sea of thick molasses, he had needed to feel, and he had miscalculated the damage he had done to his hand. It was unimportant. The people behind Herman Bennett were the ones who mattered, the ones hell-bent in playing with him using Moriarty's name and his shadow to confuse him.

They, whoever they were, wanted to destroy him, bit by bit. They wanted him wounded, scarred, humiliated and weak.

They wanted him to forget who he was, to doubt himself, to lose himself. They wanted him broken and destroyed. But why? To honour Jim Moriarty's name? They lacked his finesse, his elegance and genius. To avenge his death? It didn't make sense!

With Moriarty it had been a game and yes, of course, it had become _personal;_ it had left scars both on his skin and in his mind, he was aware of that.

He knew that some of the things that lurked and roared and bit in the dungeons of his mind palace were born the day he had seen John, wrapped in a semtex vest, in the pool where Carl Powers had died.

He knew that those things in the dungeons had only gotten stronger and uglier the deeper he fell and got at the heart of Moriarty’s net. Perhaps those things had first rooted themselves into the dark corners of his mind palace when he had felt blood turning into ice at the idea of being similar to Jim Moriarty.

_"You are on the side of the angels."_

He wasn't, not really. He had lied, deceived, hurt and killed, yes, but he was not like Moriarty. He had never been.

And those people, the ones behind the viral message, behind Bennett's murders, Joan Adams' kidnapping and the hours of gratuitous violence she had been subjected to, knew that as well. He might be on the side of the angels, but _no....he_ was not one of them.

He felt like he was circling around the truth, without seeing it, not in its entirety....and it was so frustrating! Was it how it always was for normal people? A series of elements, data and scraps of truths and information all laid out in front of them without being able to make sense of them?

Despite what he had told John in that warehouse (and how could they know about that specific location? How could they be privy of the memories and events attached to it?) he still had not said a word.

They were on their way to the A&E, driven by the agents assigned to protect them. He knew John was looking at him. He was worried, he was angry (because William Moore was still used to obey orders and had done as asked, therefore John _knew.),_ he wanted answers, he wanted -- _him._ Deducing John was easy, deducing John made him feel like he could breath, like his insides weren't made of sandpaper.

"You lied to me." John said, almost as if he had been reading his mind.

Part of him wanted to lash out at John, wanted to tell him that he wasn't about to turn into a romanticized version of himself just because he was in love with him. He was a bastard, he manipulated people, he was selfish. He was not a good man. John should be aware of that.

He was tired, sore, raw, though, and he loathed what was to come: other useless hours at the hospital and then the _game,_ the _war;_ because Joan was alive, she would bear his own name on her skin (the symmetry was not lost on Sherlock...and he hated it. He hated that he had to carry Moriarty's name on his skin and that woman had to carry his. He was not like Moriarty!), Joan's fingers were a mess of broken bones, damaged muscles and tendons...but she was alive. She would heal...and William would be with her.

He had passed the test, and there would be another. And then possibly another and it would become more and more personal. He was sure of that and for once Mycroft and he agreed on something, apparently.

And he wanted to take John and go somewhere else, there would be interesting cases in other parts of the world - but that was just wishful thinking, because Mary was still part of the equation (and he didn't like the silence on her part and how, according to Mycroft, she was behaving like the perfect mother to be; he wasn't fooled: she was surely aware of the surveillance on her) and so was John's daughter.

"Does this come as a surprise to you?" Sherlock said, realizing that John was waiting for an answer. _Right._ He couldn't tune John out, how easier (and barren, hollow) his life would have been if he had mastered that skill.

"Don't play this game with me, Sherlock. Not now." John sighed.

"Didn't you hear Mr. Bennett, John? This is _not_ a game. I lied because I had to." Sherlock said.

It was the truth and did it really come as a surprise to John that he would lie and deceive and manipulate him if it ensured his safety?

"So much for learning from your mistakes then..." John said, and he looked tired, disappointed and trying hard not to get angry. All _sentiments_ he could relate to at the moment.

Sherlock sighed, ignoring the discomfort that gesture caused him (his stitches were causing him problems, and he might have a bruised rib), and said, "You incorrectly assume that I believe I made a mistake."

"You disappeared for twelve hours! You promised Greg...and me that you ..." John said and he was seeing how much he was trying not to shout, because he felt guilty, because he had tore the stitches on his right hand during a momentary lapse in judgment and then had gone and seen the man who had abused him. And somehow John felt responsible for that. He thought that it was somehow _his_ fault.

"That I'd _behave?_ You are spending too much time with my brother, John!" Sherlock said, but the words lacked its usual edge.

"Stop being a dick about this! We were worried about you! You are supposed to be in the hospital...." John countered and God, why couldn't he let go? He was not about to fall to pieces because he had left the hospital against medical advice! He was fine!

"Very well, then." He said icily, "Next time they want to lure me in with a kidnapping, a rape or a brutal murder, I'll pass, because my _partner_ worries!"

John shook his head, apparently his words had taken the fight out of him.

"So this is how is going to be? I will hurt you, you will lie to me – you will disappear and I’ll wait for you?” John asked.

 _If you are safe then, yes. This is exactly how it is going to be,_ Sherlock thought. That was what he had meant that day, at the hospital.

 _Alone is what I have_. Except that being alone hadn’t really worked, had it? It was what he had been left with, it had been a paper thin protection, in the end; because it had changed him, in ways he couldn’t have anticipated, calculated, even if he had thought about doing so.

He had expected the violence, he had expected the blood, he had expected the long, tedious moments of waiting and the rushes of action.

He had _not_ expected other things, he had not expected to feel incomplete, like some fundamental part of himself was missing (and it was, _he_ had stayed back in London).

He had not expected that John would become the end and beginning of everything: the will to fight and survive against impossible odds, the thought that had kept him clean and halfway human, right when being a sociopath, a cold machine would have been _necessary._

"Can't you see what's going on?" Sherlock asked.

And it was not what was he supposed to say. He was supposed to keep John safe, but it was too late, _years_ too late for that, he could only try and not make things worse.

"You deciding for me? Your brother kidnapping me and making me listen to the things  _that_ man told you? You manipulating me again? Christ, Sherlock..." John said.

He was hurting John, again. That was why people like him shouldn't be granted second chances and were not supposed to have _feelings._ They - _he_ destroyed everything.

And he should tell John that he was sorry or something normal people did, but he was not sorry. Not really. Because John dead, hurt, threatened because of him was simply unacceptable. Because he was not willing to ever live in a world without John in it.

He must have been more tired (and hurt) than he had thought, because somehow he had voiced some of his thoughts aloud and John's eyes had suddenly got big and very bright.

"You _cock!"_ John said shaking his head, "you _selfish_ idiot!" He pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed and Sherlock was confused, because yes, he was selfish, he was a bastard, but...why was John blinking back tears?

For the first time since they had got into the car, Sherlock was glad for the measure of privacy they had been granted when the two agents had pulled up the partition glass, because the air felt suddenly too charged with words, the unspoken ones and those they had said for the past week -- and it was overwhelming, it felt like the moment right before he finally solved a particularly challenging puzzle, except that it was more important.

"What makes you think that I can live without you?" John said - and Sherlock felt breathless because...because that was John: he was strong, a fighter, he was the bravest person he had ever met! And he had survived while he had been away, he had grieved (more than he had expected and more deeply than he thought he would, but the alternative: John dead, shot by one of Moriarty's snipers had been simply not feasible.)

"I still dream about it, you know? I saw you die twice, Sherlock. Twice! I saw you fucking flat line on that table!"

_And I came back for you - I stayed alive because I wanted to come home to you. I missed Baker Street and us in it. I wanted our life back and I didn't get it, I had to play a waltz at your wedding and I couldn't feel my own fingers...and I killed Magnussen because I couldn't bear that man to touch you and own you._

"It's..." Sherlock trailed.

His mind was too ripe with words, with images, with feelings.

"If you say that it's different, so help me God, I will punch you in the face!" John hissed.

And for some reason it didn't even come to Sherlock's mind to be a bastard about it and remind John of his injuries. He really was tired, and stunned because of the vehemence in John's words.

John had told him that he was in love with him while he was in the hospital, he had believed him, of course, because he would always believe in John, but it was starting to feel _real._

"When I went home, yesterday --- I realized something." John said.

 _Home_ \--- it felt like he hadn't been home for so long, possibly since the night Lestrade had come to Baker Street to arrest him. John wasn't talking and Sherlock waited, he would wait for how long it would take. He had thought he would never even have that: them, sitting in a car, together, John not wearing his wedding ring, the air filled with sentiment and his heart truly beating in his chest.

"I was a right bastard to you since you came back." John said.

Sherlock frowned, confused. "You forgave me." Sherlock said. Wasn't it the only thing that mattered? 

John chuckled, and Sherlock didn't like the self contempt he heard in that sound.

"Sometimes I forget that you are who you are..." John said shaking his head. He was smiling, and there, _God,_ he could see it so clearly: John Watson was in love with him, he truly, properly was. He deduced it the same way he deduced crimes and murders. Except that the high that came with that deduction was the best he had ever felt.

"Who am I?" Sherlock asked, and in other moments he would frankly despise the uncertain tone of his voice: so filled with hope and _sentiment_ (and he didn't even care that Mycroft would probably listen to their words; on the contrary!  He wanted Mycroft  to bear witness of that miracle, of John Watson looking at him the same way he had seen William and Joan look at each other right outside that room in that warehouse: with love, devotion, wonder.)

"You are honest." John said, but Sherlock felt that it was not what he had really meant to say. Not completely.

Sherlock shook his head. John didn't know, he couldn't imagine what he was really capable of; how he had executed four men a few hours before and he didn't care, he had no idea about the people he had hurt, deceived and then discarded while he was away.

"John." Sherlock started, but John interrupted him by saying, "We've arrived."

Right. Another round of doctors who would ask him stupid questions, who would look at his scars with various degrees of curiosity or, God forbid, fake sympathy. Another round of answering the same dull questions over and over and another of forcing himself not to get high on morphine.

"I am fine." Sherlock said, and it sounded weak to his own ears.

"Good, so we'll head home soon." John said with a smile.

...And then what? What would they do?

It didn't often happen to him not to have the faintest idea about what to do next, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to be truly worried about it.

Not that time.

* * *

 

John had seen the wounds Bennett had carved on Sherlock. He had been there, in the same room with Sherlock, as other doctors stitched him up. He had read the medical charts -- and yet the sight of fresh bruises on Sherlock almost did him in, that time.

When would it end? How many times would he be in a hospital room while Sherlock wore a gown (still looking like he was wearing one of his designer clothes, still looking otherworldly beautiful), before the people who were fucking with him (with both of them actually, because he might be unharmed, physically, but he felt like he was the one who had carved those scars on Sherlock...and like he was that close to just come undone at the seams) were done?

Those people weren't playing elegant, wicked mind games with Sherlock. No, they wanted to hurt him. And he would be surprised if he knew how Sherlock had reached similar conclusions. Or perhaps not, not really.

And he was not Sherlock Holmes. He would not sit in front of Herman Bennett and talk to him. Oh, no! He wanted Bennett to fucking _hurt._ And he would make him bleed, if it was the last thing he did in his life.

Sherlock though -- he looked mostly impatient, uncaring of the new bruises and the stitches that had to be remade (and thank God he had not tore the ones inside, those were still holding up.) and the bruised rib.

He was refusing morphine or anything stronger than paracetamol. Because of course Sherlock had to choose that moment to stay clean, right when his body needed to heal!

Sherlock had seemed to sense his anger about his refusal to take painkillers, because he had said, "I need to think clearly." And his heart had cracked a bit in his chest when he had said, "I've had worse."

_When you were tortured while I was here, in London, and I couldn't spend one single night without seeing you die._

"John." Sherlock said, and John's mind must have been stuck on those images he had tried so hard to forget, because he hadn't even realised Sherlock had called his name until the younger man grabbed his face in his hands.

Sherlock's skin was too hot, he was probably running a fever, some part of himself noticed, he was pale, but he looked truly like himself: alive and vibrant with nervous energy.

He had disappeared for half a day, investigating on his own, he had killed people, he had manipulated him (and William Moore into silence) and yet John had stop himself from smiling because, _God,_ seeing Sherlock like that was amazing. He was amazing.

"Let's go home..." Sherlock said.

He was supposed to take it easy for a few days, but he very much doubted that they would be so lucky. It took him a second to realize a few things: Sherlock's voice was soft, gentle, almost, as if he was the one who had been tortured for hours a week before and then kicked in the ribs that afternoon.

There was naked concern in Sherlock's eyes. He was concerned, for him. And yes, Sherlock sacrificed himself for him, he lied, manipulated, deceived and killed for him -- because, God, being loved by Sherlock Holmes was humbling -- because Sherlock Holmes loved like he solved crimes: with absolute devotion, with everything he was...and John wondered how on Earth he had not seen it before.

Because he might have realized that Sherlock was in love with him but there, in that hospital room, after yet another heartwrenchingly long day, he had just seen the scars, the signs of what loving him was doing to Sherlock.

"Yeah," He said, smiling a little, "let's go home."

They didn't say a word on the way out. He felt like the world had tilted on its axis, because Sherlock had said that he didn't want to live in a world without him in it, because Herman Bennett had somehow threatened him and Sherlock had protected him, had kept him safe --- and he had new bruises to prove it.

They didn't talk in the car, they sat close, so close to each other that their thighs were pressed against each other's and John felt dizzy, because Sherlock Holmes was amazing, he was a genius and yet he didn't get one single truth: he thought that he could live without him -- and he could; breathing, walking, blinking his eyes -- that he could do. He could remember how to dress, how to take the tube, how to undress, shower, put on his pajamas -- but he didn't know how to _exist,_ how not to feel ripped in half without him, how to be truly alive without Sherlock.

He almost didn't notice it when the car parked outside Baker Street, he followed Sherlock outside, feeling almost numb, because -- because he had never been loved like that. He doubted anyone had ever been loved like that -- and it was _not_ healthy, it destroyed him and put him back together and John could only walk, follow Sherlock (he would follow him to hell, he would do anything for that man), glad because Mrs. Hudson was not home, she was under protection, and feeling his heart stuck in his throat, because they were home, together, and it was a miracle, it was the universe restoring its balance, and John was almost sleepwalking, unable to say a word, because those bruises and those scars had almost done him in.

"Sit." Sherlock said, closing the door behind them _(home,_ they were home, finally!)

"This is supposed to be my line." John said attempting to smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You heard the doctor, I'm fine!" He said.

No, bloody hell! He was not! He had stitches all over his sodding body, a mess on his right hand and a bruised rib!

Sherlock shook his head and said, "What am I supposed to do, now? Relationships are not my area, John."

"Seeing as I married an assassin I wouldn't say that they are my area either." John said.

"You married a nurse who made you happy, you didn't marry --" Sherlock said, but the words came out of John's mouth before he could stop them, "She didn't."

They were standing in the middle of the sitting room -- Sherlock near the door, John near his armchair - Sherlock took a couple of cautious steps, but didn't say anything. Sherlock didn't need to say a word, not in that moment.

"It's hard for me to say the words...." John started and when Sherlock opened his mouth to talk, he tilted a finger up, silencing him before he could speak. "You were dead -- and she made me feel like I hadn't died with you. She made it bearable."

"She was good to you." Sherlock said.

"But she wasn't you. She didn't make me happy. Don't you see Sherlock?" John said. And it was the truth. He needed Sherlock to see that he had done a terrible job at living without him.

"You loved her." Sherlock said. And he said it without resentment, without reproach or jealousy. He stated a fact.

God, why were they having _that_ conversation?

He shrugged and said in a low voice, "but -- you know? The day you came back ....I came here."

Sherlock frowned, looking intrigued by his words, he took a few steps and slowly sat on his armchair. He looked pale and tired, but the look in his eyes was sharp, lucid...and understanding.

"What for?" Sherlock asked softly.

John shrugged as he sat on his armchair, "I told Mrs. Hudson that I was moving on." He said.

"You were going to propose that night." Sherlock said.

"But..." John trailed, "I wasn't moving on. Not really. Not where it mattered"

"I had to make you believe, John. There was no other way." Sherlock said. "I heard you that day..." He added in a low voice.

"At the graveyard?" John asked. He knew, Sherlock had told him -- he had asked for one more miracle and Sherlock had given it to him.

"No." It was all Sherlock said.

And John knew what day, what moment he was talking about: the pavement outside St. Bart's: blood everywhere, his fingers trying to find Sherlock's pulse on his wrist (because Sherlock had known that he would check the wrist first) and his world crumbling down when he didn't find it.

"I feared you would find out" Sherlock said, "but I heard you. And I'm sorry."

 

* * *

 

 

 John's face fell at his words. Sherlock knew what he had just said was hurting John...because he remembered that day.

He remembered those moments. He deduced right away that John wanted to know, that he wanted to ask him whether he had heard him while he was on the pavement outside St. Bart's, he wasn't talking, though -- because it was simply too painful. It was etched in every wrinkle on his face, in his body language, in his stunned silence.

And Sherlock could tell him, he _should_ tell him, because he remembered everything, because he never had the luxury to simply forget things; he could delete some of them; he could delete _facts,_ some faces, useless trivia, but there were things that could not be deleted or ignored,it didn't matter how much he tried to.

He wished he had hazy recollections of the day he had jumped off that rooftop, instead he remembered every single moment with stark clarity: the smells, the textures, the taste of copper (adrenaline and fear) in the back of his throat, the sight of Jim Moriarty waiting for him on that rooftop, the spider patiently waiting for its meal, the song he had been listening while waiting for him for their final meeting.

He remembered the surprise, the momentary shock when Moriarty had killed himself, because they were _not_ similar, because he had been forced to fake his suicide.

Had they met before, before John called him an idiot for almost getting himself killed because he had been bored and finding out whether he had been right about a pill had beat boredom, even if dying had been a concrete possibility, things might have been different.

John had saved him, though. He had called him an idiot, they had giggled on a crime scene, eaten Chinese, drunk cold beer and things had changed. He had changed.

That day, on the rooftop, had not wanted to die (leave John), but Moriarty had won the game -- and he was still paying the price.

He had heard John. He had heard the quiet desperation in the man's voice, and while he had been on that pavement (cold, unable not to hear John, unable to hide in his mind palace), the only thing that had mattered was that John believed the lie, believed the magic trick, because he had known that there were still snipers ready to shot John (and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson) and it was imperative that he survived.

And yes, at the time, before the long days away from home, before the blood, the violence and a crippling emptiness that would hurt more than he could have ever thought possible, there had also been anticipation...the need to start unraveling Moriarty's web thread by thread.

He had heard John. He had felt his fingers (ice cold, calloused skin, familiar, _loved)_ taking his pulse -- and the hope that he believed the lie had become a litany in his head, behind his open, apparently, unseeing eyes.

But down... deep down...John's touch had burned; it had stayed with him, he had felt it on his skin: in cargo ships, in small cities whose names he hadn't even bothered to learn, in rooms with yellow wallpapers peeling off, while pain throbbed and the blood just didn't stop trickling down his skin, or as his body hit concrete floors after being hit.

"I'm sorry." He repeated.

He would never be sorry for saving John's life (melodramatic, perhaps, but nevertheless true). He would never be sorry for taking down Moriarty's web (but he had failed or his torso wouldn't itch with his name, like he was merchandise, something to mark and _own),_ he was sorry because he had felt John's phantom touch on his skin and it had been devastating, and what John must have felt must have been hell.

He was sorry about _that._ He would always regret that.

He was sorry because John loved him...and it would tear him apart one day.

"I can't..." John said shaking his head, his voice hoarse while he continued, "Not now. When this is over, when things --"

"I told you once, John...the game is never over." Sherlock said.

And he didn't understand, his mind couldn't grasp the dichotomy of what sentiment did to people, to him: loving someone so much that it physically hurt and yet hurting the object of his love with words, with omissions, with truths. Protecting and destroying. Craving and fearing. Heartbreak and sparks of brilliant happiness.

"This game will." John said.

And it was the soldier speaking, the man who had shot a serial killer for him and tackled Moriarty urging him to run, to save himself. Sherlock closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaped from his lips before he said, "I didn't want you to be anywhere near Herman Bennett, John. And I still don't."

The anger had been overwhelming, for a moment, after he had seen John and Mycroft. It had been the same cold, white, jagged creature that lurked in the deepest recesses of his mind: cruel, unforgiving. It was the part of him that had left snapped necks and bodies buried in shallow graves on its wake.  Logic had won out in the end. And _sentiment._ Sentiment had banished that part of him back in the dark.

"I know." John said, and he sounded exhausted. They both did. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the man in front of him: he could be scathing, he could cut John and break him with his words. It was scary, in a sense, to have that much power over a person. But John...could do the same, couldn't he?

"John, it's not because of what happened in the basement." Sherlock said.

And he was aware that neither John nor he had actually stopped skirting the words and what they entailed. But that (the pain, the smells, the noises Bennett had made, the texture of his heated flesh) was not important. Not really. Not at the moment. He was not falling apart because of that.

_"Maybe I didn't break you, maybe someone got there before I could." Herman Bennett said._

_And that was the closest that pathetic excuse for a human being had come to cause a reaction in him. Not on the outside, because Herman Bennett might have enjoyed hurting him, but Sherlock was the best at that sort of game; he had had decades to master the right looks, the right body language._

_The man's words moved something inside of him, though: images and sounds and smells and faces never deleted, just stashed in a bleak room of his mind palace._

_"Oh, Mr. Bennett, you really should stick to your part of the game. Ad libitum does not suit you." He replied with a smile._

_It took him a fraction of second too long to talk, but Bennett was not that good, he hadn't noticed, he was too busy yapping away about bodily fluids and intercourse (rape). He hadn't even noticed how close he had come to really cause a reaction in him._

 

John looked at him expectantly, the previous words (heartbreak) forgotten.

"The idea of you sharing breathing space with him is abhorrent to me." Sherlock said.

It was the closest he could come to articulate everything that was wrong with the idea of John anywhere near Herman Bennett and, at the same time, it didn't even begin to cover it.

"You know that I would kill him if it weren't for the other victims, right?" John asked.

He knew. Of course he knew, because if Herman Bennett as much as glimpsed at John he would squeeze the life out of him in a heartbeat. But -- he felt already too hollowed out to voice his thoughts. How did normal people function when they were in love? How did it not drive them crazy?

He shook his head, "You should eat something, have a shower and rest." He said.

Because that was what he was supposed to do: taking care of John. John frowned, confusion apparent on his face. It was clear that he had expected something else from him.

"What do you expect me to reply to your words, John? Herman Bennett is unimportant." Sherlock said. John clenched his jaws at his words, and he saw how John was fighting not to let the anger out.

He got up from his armchair, the pain in his body keeping him grounded (but not like in that house. That was different, that was infinitely more important) and took the couple of steps that separated him from John.

He caught him by surprise when he crouched in front of him. John looked scared, for a moment -- and Sherlock acted, before the weight of the past week -- of the past few years, made John bolt. It hurt to be in that position, but that was unimportant at the moment.

"Look at me, John!" He said (ordered, pleaded). He didn't expect the smile he felt tugging at his lips. He didn't expect his own body to react to John's proximity, but it happened: he smiled and he realized just how cold he had felt, despite the fever he was running, when he felt the warmth of John's skin against his fingers. And he knew John; as much as the man in front of him never ceased to amaze and surprise him - Sherlock knew his heart, he knew how much of a decent man he was.

"I am not in that basement any longer, John. We are here. We are home. I have already wasted enough time with Herman Bennett and his puerile attempts at games." Sherlock said softly.

"He did more than that." John said. And he knew that tone of voice. And he had hurt John enough for one day - with his actions and what he had just revealed. It had to end.

 "I will only say this once, so pay attention." Sherlock said, "Did he physically hurt me? Yes. Is it something I'd rather not think or talk about? Again, yes. Was it upsetting to be in the same room with him? Not in the least."

"You are..." John trailed.

"I have been tortured and abused. Yes, I'm aware." Sherlock said and he was surprised when his tone wasn't dismissive or scathing. He was also surprised by how easily the words had come out of his mouth; without denial, without (shame) hesitation.

"Why do you keep hurting your hand?" John softly asked, and that question surprised Sherlock. It was not what he had expected John to ask him.

"I told you." He said, taking probably too long to answer, "It's been already been taken care of."

He knew it wasn't a real answer. But -- those moments with Magnussen, his damp touch, his words, made him feel _dirty._ And yes, while there were moments where he still felt filthy, moments where he still felt like he was in Herman Bennett's basement and the air he breathed felt ripe with those foul smells and his body ached, Bennett had not got under his skin the way Magnussen did.

Bennett might have hurt his body (and it had been painful, it had been excruciatingly repugnant), but Magnussen, with his words, his touch had bolted open doors that were supposed to be sealed shut.

He didn't flinch away from John's touch when he felt the man's hands on his face, though. He had felt him moving and part of him hated how carefully John threaded with him, how, despite having just seen what he capable of, he still treated him as if he might fall to pieces.

But that was just a small part of him, because it was John touching him, it was his warm hands against his skin (not desperately trying to find a pulse, not helping him dress, like before he had left the hospital the previous morning), his eyes were still too bright and big, and it was just them, in their sitting room, sharing breathing space and painful words and yet it was good, It was more than good; he needed that closeness, that warmth, they both did.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them when John said, "We should get some rest."

His smile grew wider at John's words. John and he...sharing a bed, his bed, in _their_ flat. Yes, God, yes!

"I can sleep upstairs if..." John trailed.

No...no...no. Sherlock shook his head. He had gotten used far too quickly to John's breathing patterns during the night, to the sounds he made, to the fact that he could look at him and know he would be there. Why would John want to sleep upstairs? Unless... _Right._ Of course!

John had heard Herman Bennett and his futile attempts at playing games with him. He had also deceived John, manipulated him. He had told him things about the day he had faked his  suicide.

"But if you want to..." John said, interrupting his musings.

"I do." Sherlock replied quickly.

 _I do_. Two simple words and they were the best he could do at the moment.

_I do want to sleep with you tonight and every night after that._

_I do love you -- and I can't seem to do it properly, but you are staying. Despite everything._

_I do hurt: skin, bones, muscles, but I'm not broken, John. I know, now._

He didn't add anything else. He didn't need to. John nodded and wordlessly helped Sherlock on his feet. Their fingers were entwined, now...and they were close, so close.

Before, _before_ he had jumped off that ledge, he had been exceptional at pretending he didn't notice it when John and he were too close, when the air around them was ripe with that tension (longing, sentiment so strong and deep-rooted that being half a world away from that man had done nothing but making him yearn for him), he couldn't think of one single reason whether rational or otherwise not to step closer, not to look at the man in front of him, now.

They had kissed for the first time in that flat and there had been other kisses after that: passion like fire, all consuming, between them. There had been urgency, he had kissed John because being in Herman Bennett's house, in the basement, in his bedroom, had made him feel like he was drowning in a sea of thick, bitter molasses...but when Sherlock brushed his lips against John's, in that room, that night, it felt different. It was different.

 _I'm sorry, sorry I broke your heart that day_ , his lips kissing the side of John's lips said.

 _I'm hurt, I'm scared because I can't lose you,_ his lips whispered with each soft, feather like caress against John's.

And John, marvelous, kind, _his,_ kissed him back; softly, as if they had all the time of the world.

And Herman Bennett, the people behind him who wanted him broken and destroyed never had seemed so distant, so unimportant, so doomed to fail.

Warm hands cupping his face, his own hands trailing down John's back were melting all away: that long day, Alyce Bradford's face, her bruises and scars as he inspected her bedroom, her tears and fear, the tedious work of finding the warehouse, the pain (oh God, body was transport, but that day had been exhausting), blood, firing a gun, breaking bones, because he had promised a dark haired man he would save the woman he loved.

_"I will bring her back, Mr. -- William. I give you my word." Sherlock said._

_"I can't lose her." William whispered, and his calm exterior, his rationality had eclipsed. He was desperate, he was afraid, and Sherlock knew what it felt like._

_He wasn't supposed to feel so much._

_He had honestly thought he would always be above emotions, empathy, love._

_Wrong. He had been spectacularly wrong._

Joan, bleeding, scarred, naked, surrounded by men who were obeying orders (dead, they were all dead, deleted, plucked out), a game he hated, his coat wrapped around her lean body (it hurt them both to move, but she was cold, and she was bleeding, and she had his name carved all over her skin, and his throat had gagged, for a moment, a fleeting second, that had felt excruciatingly long) and Joan asking about William, closing her eyes, being strong and bleeding in his arms.

John was kissing it all away. John was there, with him, and there were no sudden spikes of other _things_ distracting him, there weren't lies, charades, appearances to keep up. Not that time.

And he knew that any other night, under different circumstances, those kisses (deep, warm, languid, breathtaking) might lead to more. And he would spend hours, eons, kissing John, tasting his skin, feel its warmth against his own body. 

"Sherlock..." John panted against his lips, breaking their kiss.

"I know..." Sherlock said. Was it his own voice? It was filled with all the things he had spent decades to ignore and suppress: longing, lust, love. He took a step back, but John's fingers were still hovering over his sides.

Not that night, not with almost a hundred stitches on his body (at least he had stopped feeling numb, like he was a rag doll stitched back together and put in a bed), not with the words they had said.

 _I don't know how to love you without hurting you, John._ He thought, and John seemed to deduce (sense) his thoughts because he cradled his face in his hands, and there was no reproach in his eyes.

 _I will end up destroying you, you should run away._ He thought.

John's reply was a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

 _Not bloody likely._ John's lips whispered against his skin.

"Let's go to bed." John said.

Sherlock could only nod. Only later did he realise that when they walked, hand in hand, to his bedroom, John had held his right one, and not once Charles Augustus Magnussen had entered his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 

 While John helped Sherlock undress for the night, with numb fingers and his heart drumming against his ribcage, while Sherlock tried to find a comfortable position to lay on his own bed (and they would end up plastered to each other by morning), Mycroft Holmes sat in an anonymous, grey room, staring at Herman Bennett. He didn't say a word, not at first, he was not in that room to have answers, he was not even there _officially._

He stared down at the man who had killed young men and women whose only fault had been to hold a slight resemblance to his little brother with a slight smile on his lips.

He stared down at the man who had carved Jim Moriarty's name on his brother chest and put his hands on the table in front of him.

Herman Bennett had seemed amused at first. He had genuinely thought that he was in some sort of position of power, he had thought he had scored points that day. It was up to him to set the record straight, because Mycroft Holmes knew about martyrs for a cause, but he was exceptionally good at recognising weak, delusional men on power trips.

He stared down at the man who had tortured and raped his little brother, the closest thing to a heart he had, and his smile grew wider, before he said, "You said that we could do whatever we wanted with you, but you wouldn't volunteer any more information."

"I am not afraid of you." Bennett said.

Mycroft let out a chuckle. Of all the people who had heard that sound through the years only two were still alive: one was outside, waiting for him, ever faithful, the other had almost a hundred stitches on his body and even deeper scars inside of him that he had barely started to uncover.

"I am sure this is a mistake that will be corrected shortly." Mycroft said, "You rather showed your hand, Mr. Bennett. Are you even aware of that?"

"There will be a trial." Bennett said, and at last there was a beginning of fear in his voice. Fear was not enough, though. Not for that man.

Another smile. His hands still on the table, as he forbade himself to deduce that _specimen._

"Jim Moriarty...." Bennett started.

"Is dead, Mr. Bennett! And you should be grateful for that. He would have found creative ways to hurt you after what you did." Mycroft said.

"You have no idea about what's in store for _him."_ Bennett said.

"You should perhaps be more concerned about your own future." Mycroft said.

"I'm not afraid to die." Herman Bennett stated proudly.

Mycroft didn't move, his hands were still on that table, his body, heartbeat, unnaturally calm.

Caring was not an advantage or so he said, irrationality was something foreign to him, but despite what he told Sherlock (and himself) he did _care..._ and his anger at that man for what he had done to his brother was a quiet, cold, merciless creature.

"Oh, you will live, Mr. Bennett and I guarantee that it will be my privilege to ensure that you hate every single moment of it. You enjoyed playing with your victims, didn't you?"

He saw the answer in the man's eyes, the spark of lust and smug satisfaction and Mycroft's smile became almost saccharine when he said, "Welcome to the other side!"

"You need me." Bennett said, but he wasn't stupid. There was dread, now, in his voice.

Herman Bennett might be good with a razor, he might be a psychopath, but he was not stupid.

"Do we?" Mycroft asked as he got up, ignoring the man and his words.

Panic, yes and the realization that he was _powerless_ , that he was from that moment on at his mercy _._ He wasn't even started with Herman Bennett.

He was going to annihilate him.

 

* * *

 

 While Sherlock finally succumbed to a restless sleep, filled with sounds and images that would wake him up more than one during the night, calmed only by John's presence, next to him, someone (because Herman Bennett was right on one thing: they were _everywhere)_ put a note, written on a white rectangle of paper, under his pillow in his prison cell; it had only a number and two words written on it: 48, trainer and plexiglass.

The words were ciphered, but Herman Bennett knew what they meant right away. He tore the rectangle of paper in pieces and ate it, like he had been long ago instructed to do and part of him hoped that the paper was poisoned. It wasn't.

The guard who had delivered the message wasn't so lucky, he was killed in his sleep, it would take a second autopsy to determine the exact cause of death, but things would be already in motion by then.

* * *

 

 

 While John Watson pretended to be asleep, closing his hands in tight fists under the sheet as Sherlock retched in the bathroom after a nightmare, torn between the desire for Sherlock to feel in control, and fear, because he wanted to believe, with all his heart, that Sherlock had told him the truth about not being bothered by meeting Herman Bennett, but he couldn't be sure; he had no idea about what had caused the nightmare, there were still too many things, days, wounds he didn't know about, facts that he wasn't privy of -- he knew, however, that if he got up and went to his partner (love of his life), Sherlock would clam up and that would be infinitely worse.

While he waited for the man he loved to come back to bed (and he would, he would not make a sound, even if John knew that the stitches must hurt and his hands were cold and clammy), elsewhere in London, in a private room in the same hospital where Sherlock had been admitted after being tortured by Herman Bennett, William Moore was watching his fiancee finally sleep.

William Moore had no idea that John Watson had had a similar look on his face as he first saw Sherlock's wounds: a momentary numbness crushed by the sudden realization that it had really happened; that those wounds were real, that someone had actually carved letters (different letters and names, different perpetrators, but the same intent) on Sherlock' s (Joan) skin.

Joan was sleeping, she had not refused painkillers (she was a rubbish patient, but she had also been in a lot pain. And she had hurt enough for a lifetime) and William wished he could hold her hand, but it was impossible; both her hands were in casts and he knew that her days as a surgeon were over.

He hated those motherfuckers, whoever they were, more than he had ever hated anyone else in his life.

He wouldn't be surprised in the least if he knew how much his feelings mirrored John Watson's. He knew that the men physically responsible for the pain Joan was going through had been already disposed of: Sherlock Holmes had seen to it.

He had promised that he would bring Joan back and he had kept his promise...but William wanted the people behind them, those who had chosen them, who had thought that using Joan to play games with Sherlock Holmes was a good idea. His fingers kept playing with a lock of Joan's hair. He had left civil service for her, to make sure that she would always be safe. He had failed.

He cast a glance at Sherlock's coat hanging on a chair in the room: it was dirty with Joan's blood, it had been too large on her, but he had appreciated the gesture. That didn't mean that Sherlock Holmes didn't still owe him. He owed him a true explanation, he wanted to know whom exactly they were dealing with. He owed him to be part of the plan to bring those people down.

He had been a good operative, he had served his country and his Queen. But that was different; that was personal. Joan moaned in her sleep and William's resolve only grew stronger. 

People said that Sherlock Holmes was an uncaring, sociopathic bastard. They hadn't seen him going on a mission on his own because his friend, John Watson, had been threatened; they hadn't seen placing tentative fingers, meant to offer comfort, on Joan's shoulder, as she was wheeled away from that warehouse. They hadn't seen him shaking his head at his words of gratitude, and looking exhausted, at the same time.

Sherlock Holmes owed him -- and William thought that he owed the man as well. Because that  was more than personal -- it was their lives. Joan (and John Watson, he was sure) were _their_ life.

* * *

 

 

 While John slid closer to Sherlock in bed, careful of the stitches on his back and somehow Sherlock found his hand and and blindly grabbed onto it in his sleep, while Herman Bennett's smile finally left his face as he thought about Mycroft Holmes' words, while William rested his head on the matress, with one arm draped over Joan's legs, while a guard with no apparent ties to Moriarty got poisoned in his bed, in a suburb of London, Mary Morstan was awake; she was in the bedroom, _her_ bedroom now, looking at her wedding photos, she traced with the pad of her fingers John's face, first...and then Sherlock's.

She was not really seeing those images, though. She didn't have a mind palace, like Sherlock, but she had an excellent memory nevertheless.

Sherlock had been right about her good retentive memory.

She was seeing other things...different people, different places, she had been a different person, then.

Her left hand was caressing her swollen belly as her mind was elsewhere, indulging in _sentiment,_ in _what ifs_. It was a luxury she couldn't really afford, a weakness that could be exploited. Sherlock had talked about sentiment making her miss a kill shot. He was right, but not in the way he had meant it.

She closed her wedding album as she felt her mobile phone vibrate. She didn't check on it. That was not the moment for that, for trivia.

That night she needed to remember: it would hurt, as always, but it was also necessary. It would give her purpose. It would break her heart all over again.

She would not utter sounds, she would not shed any tear. Mary Morstan cried, Mary Morstan lived in the suburbs and wore fluffy robes...but she was _not_ Mary Morstan, not really.

Sherlock Holmes had been wrong on one thing the night he had deduced her past: she wasn't running from anything, not any more.

She was exactly where she wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deal with rape and trauma. Sherlock is avoiding the subject (and so is John), I'm trying to be respectful both of the subject and the emotional devastation it causes. Sherlock will not avoid it forever and neither will John


	13. Chapter 13 ~ The Calm Before The Storm ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things unsaid between them could still fill Trafalgar Square, but they were trying – and it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much to all those who left feedback and kudos. (I'm looking at you: @Lillocked, thesignofserbia, stainedglassangel!). I've been home, bedridden because of a nasty flu, so...tadà! Another update in a month:)  
> Writing part of this chapter kind of killed me, but I *hope* it doesn't completely suck!  
> Enjoy!!  
> The parts in Italics in the last paragraph are what happened *after* the last scene. Sorry if it's confusing:)  
> ETA: damn kindle...I'm writing this monster on it, typos still hide when I post chapters and then I have to correct them. So sorry!!!

 

 

Later, when John would think about the days following Joan Adams' retrieval, he would wonder how much Sherlock had already known or suspected. He would think back to those days and remember how, deep down, he had constantly waited for the other shoe to drop.

What he would remember were sounds and smells that he would always associate with those few days, even much later, when things became crystal clear.

A particular brand of tea would make him think about quiet breakfasts in the sitting room while Sherlock fidgeted in his chair trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. He would come to hate the smell of a particular brand of antibiotic.

He would remember sounds, he would always associate them with those days: the sounds of people right outside their door, the  men assigned to be their shadows,  the sounds Sherlock made at nights, during and after his dreams.

He had honestly thought that they would not be allowed to catch a break, that some poor man or a woman...or both would be dragged into that sick game to make Sherlock play.

Only later would John see that there had been a purpose behind the silence, behind the relative calm that had descended upon them in the week following Joan's kidnapping.

He would, eventually, glimpse a pattern, a strategy.

The knowledge that _they_ had never truly stopped  playing the game, that it had stopped being about foils and decoys would come later - when it would become abundantly clear what they had always meant to do: hurt them. To the core.

 

* * *

 

 

There were moments where John could almost pretend that nothing had happened, that somehow they had been granted yet another miracle and had turned back time to _before_ : before Moriarty, before a gray sky, cold rain, a dark silhouette, a phone call and a deep voice asking him (begging, ordering him) to stay exactly where he was; he could almost believe that he had never met Mary, that Charles Augustus Magnussen was still just a name he sometimes heard about on the telly and that Sherlock had not been sent away to die as a punishment for having killed him.

He could almost believe that Herman Bennett didn’t exist, that Sherlock hadn’t offered himself as hostage taking Alyce Bradford’s place

 

_“You don’t really want her, Mr. Bennett,” Sherlock said, speaking for the first time since they had arrived at the scene._

_Herman Bennett smirked, the gun pressed against the trembling girl's temple; he would shoot her to the head, they all knew that he was not afraid of them, he was not afraid of being taken down._

_Alyce Bradford was going to die – and Sherlock – would he flinch while looking at her wounds, after?_

He could almost believe that those eight hours after things had gone spectacularly wrong, had never happened. There were good moments, good hours, where forgetting was easy, because he was _home_ , with Sherlock, and it was almost like _before_ – or even better because he slept in Sherlock’s bed.

Correction: Sherlock and he slept together. In the same bed. They read: Sherlock about old cases, about chemistry or random news on his mobile phone while John read medical journals. They ended up plastered to each other, tangled legs and his arm always possessively draped over Sherlock's narrow hips.

It was domestic, it was– _good._ It was like it should have always been, if one ignored the wounds on Sherlock’s body, the nightmares and the ever growing collection of pills on Sherlock’s bedside table (all kinds of pills, except for painkillers. Sherlock was still adamant about not taking them and having witnessed Sherlock’s nightmares, he had stopped asking him to).

Reality came crashing down on him in the oddest moments, and he was tempted to snort at his own _delusions_ , because things _were_ different: that day on Bart’s rooftop had happened, he had met Mary, still half mad with  grief and loss and had married her (because she wasn't supposed to be like _that,_ because she had saved him and gratitude and genuine affection had to be enough) and she had shot Sherlock, Magnussen had wanted to own both Holmes brothers, in different ways (and his skin crawled whenever he thought about the dead man, Sherlock had been right: that man turned his stomach) and Sherlock had been sent on a suicide mission and he was still in London only because of Moriarty’s viral message.

There was an unnerving silence, at times – not Sherlock’s, because the man talked about _everything,_ now _:_ experiments he wanted to run, crap telly or old unsolved cases. Sherlock talked about a lot of things, almost as if he couldn't bear the silence either. He talked about lots of things, except the elephants in the room: what happened in that basement, the radio silence from the people behind Bennett and what happened with Mycroft.

Every day, at exactly 6 p.m, agents Drake and Harris escorted Sherlock to a black car parked outside Baker Street where Sherlock would talk with Mycroft. The meetings lasted exactly two hours, but John had never been asked to join them.

Not even once.

“I am not lying or hiding anything from you, John.” Sherlock had said, only a couple of nights before, while they were in bed.

And John had been hit with the sudden realization that he was in an actual relationship with Sherlock Holmes, that the man was _trying_ , that their bodies were impossibly close and that Sherlock's bedroom, in a short few days, had become _their_ bedroom.

The anger at being left out had sort of deflated at that point.

"I truly am not." Sherlock had said.

“You are not volunteering information either.” John had replied because he was supposed to say something, wasn’t he? Because he felt guilty about the spark of happiness his realization had brought him.

Sherlock had slid closer to him – it had become natural to share a bed, even if John never stopped being mindful of Sherlock’s wounds, it was nevertheless so _good_ to feel Sherlock so close to him- and had said, “We are checking data.”

“What kind of data?” John had asked. And Sherlock’s curls were tickling his nose, and he didn’t feel bad because he was being left out, he was worried, but he was also, for some reason, hopeful because Sherlock and he were talking in bed like a normal couple would do. Happiness...was scary.

Sherlock  had told him that they were going over his two years abroad, cross checking names, places,  dates and, "boring and dull things like that."

He had felt his heart stutter in his chest at those words and he had spoken before he could even think about stopping, "Those two years..." John said, "we have never talked about that."

Sherlock had chuckled at his words (gritting his teeth in pain immediately after, because yeah – chuckling and having good moments came with a price, that was why he was scared of those embers of happiness..) and had said, "John, have you met us? Besides, there is not much to talk about!"

Of course there wasn’t, according to Sherlock. He knew he would never volunteer any information about those two years and what happened in that period of time. He would never tell him where he had been, what he had had to do to take Moriarty's web down or where some of the faded scars he had seen scattered on his body (not the ones from Serbia, there were others, but John wanted to know about them as well.) had come from.

And he knew that he would never ask Mycroft, despite his offer, because what happened the day Sherlock had visited Herman Bennett had scared him; because Sherlock had used his own actions (betrayal) to protect him, but he had been _furious_ , that hadn’t been an act and the twelve hours that had followed had been among the longest in John’s life.

So, no, going behind Sherlock's back was out of the question.

  John, though, could see that Sherlock was really making an effort – he was trying to be forthcoming, as much as his nature and decades of repression allowed him to be, he was trying to (get better, be strong, be Sherlock Holmes) move on and start their life together.

 “You took down a criminal empire, on your own." John had said after a moment.

Sherlock had been silent for a few seconds before saying, "I didn't and I wasn't."

Sherlock had been giving his back to him, his right side was the only halfway comfortable position he could be in, but John had wished the man would look at him, especially when he added, "We -- _I_ must have missed a few  threads, that is the only logical explanation. And I was not alone."

And the tendrils of irrational jealousy John had felt blooming in his gut  at Sherlock's words withered when he said, " _You_ were there. I could not stop thinking about you. I could not get you out of my head."

John had halted himself before he could touch Sherlock's back. He had wanted to trace the old scars with his fingers, because no, he had not been there with him, he had been in London, sleepwalking through his days at first and then gutted by loss, later. And Sherlock's words floored him and humbled him.

Sherlock was trying, but some things, though, would never change.

"I wish..." John had trailed.

Sherlock had tensed, "Don't." He had said, his voice booking no arguments. "Just...don't!"

He had not turned, he had not looked at him, he had not even touched him, but he hadn't really needed to.

Because Sherlock Holmes was a genius and knew him better than anyone else, therefore he had known he had meant to say that he wished  he could have been there with him, that he might have helped him. That he _should_ have been there with him.

Sherlock Holmes still believed that his life was somehow less important than John’s own – and John could only  hope that a lifetime together would be enough to disabuse him from that bunch of bullshit.

The things unsaid between them could still fill Trafalgar Square, but they were trying – and it was _good._

There _were_ good moments, despite everything, and John had soon learnt to savor them, because Sherlock's mood, which had always been unpredictable to begin with, could  now literally change within a heartbeat; it happened because his wounds itched and hurt and his ribs was still sore; it happened because he still couldn’t have a proper wash, due to the stitches on his body and there was still a broken mirror in the bathroom. It was there, no one mentioned it, but they were both painfully aware of what that meant. It happened because Sherlock’s body was still weak, it was recovering from blood loss and trauma (torture and rape) and he could not just bounce back from that. Not after the past few years of his life.

Sherlock, however, was stubborn; every time his body somehow failed him, every time he couldn’t do some mundane task because of his wounds, he took it personally. What was worst was that he took it as a personal _defeat_ and in that John could see how utterly human (and an idiot to boot) Sherlock actually was.

There were bad moments. Of course, there were. There _was_ a reason for the two guards outside their door, 24/7,  for the wounds on Sherlock’s body and for the fact that the air in the flat could suddenly become frigid if Sherlock dropped something or forgot about the stitches on his body: the eight hours in Herman Bennett’s basement had happened; that was a _fact_.   

They were living with the consequences, now: wounds to dress, pills to take (and Sherlock took them obediently, not saying a word about it), the nightly ritual of helping Sherlock undress, of waiting for him to find a comfortable position to lie in before joining him in bed  – and then there were the nightmares.

There _were_ ugly moments, ugly hours, during the night and John knew, now, that only _some_ of Sherlock's dreams featured Herman Bennett and what had happened in the basement.

He had learned to recognize the differences pretty soon: Sherlock would retch in the bathroom if his dreams involved the basement, usually – but he would not make a sound, he would barely move if the nightmares were about _before (_ yet another _before_ and _after_ to add to the list.)

Sometimes  Sherlock muttered words in Serbian (at least he assumed it was Serbian.) or some other language he didn't know;  other times he didn't make a sound; he rarely moved during those dreams, but when he woke up there was always a moment, mere seconds actually, where he looked _grateful_ to be in that room, to be in the present, however in pain he must feel. 

He  couldn’t help wondering, though, since he had seen the effects those nightmares had on Sherlock,  how many times, after he had come back,  he had had nightmares and then had woken up, alone, in the dark and then had gone and  acted as if nothing was wrong, planning  his wedding with Mary to the last detail.

He couldn’t help recalling how _Mary_ had seen through Sherlock’s façade, how she had seen that something was _not_ right, and he hadn’t. He had refused to see.

He couldn't dwell on those thoughts, though. It would serve no purpose; he couldn't change the past, neither of them could undo their mistakes,  he’d rather focus on Sherlock.

Problem was – well, _one_ of the problems, at least – that Sherlock flinched away from his touch. It didn’t happen often, and there was never anything remotely _sexual_ in the way he touched Sherlock when it happened ( _that_ was something they would have to deal with, eventually, but there were more pressing matters they faced every day), nevertheless he would flinch, he would – shy away from him; at that point either things might happen: Sherlock could be a _bastard_ , trying to bury those fleeting moments under scathing words and looks or, worse, he would apologise.

Which was infinitely worse. It made John want to hit things. It made him want to rip Herman Bennett to shreds. Sherlock might consider him _unimportant,_ but John wanted that sick son of a bitch to suffer.

There were _agonizing_ moments: like the talks with Sherlock’s doctor about plastic surgery; Sherlock didn’t care about most of the scars on his body, both the recent and the old ones; except for the way the newest were impairing him, but he wanted Moriarty’s name _deleted,_ with any means necessary.

He couldn't blame him.

John saw that Sherlock retreated far away in his mind while he tended to those particular wounds and he knew exactly how many cuts it had taken to carve that name. He knew how many stitches he had on his torso and how long it would take until Sherlock could have that name deleted.

There were also nights where _he_ was the one who woke up from nightmares, and he had come to miss his old dreams, the ones about Afghanistan, because the worse that it happened in them was that he got shot again, and he had survived that – he had been saved. Twice.

There was no escaping from the images his subconscious came up with, now; he saw in vivid Technicolor what Herman Bennett had done to Sherlock, and  what Mary, Magnussen, Moriarty had done...and sometimes it was him who...

...who tortured, shot, molested Sherlock in a hospital bed or, worse, raped him on a dirty floor in a basement or against the rack.

The first time it happened he was torn away from the nightmare with such force, that he almost didn't make it in time to the bathroom to throw up.

He had been grateful for the broken mirror in the bathroom while his hands couldn't stop shaking and breathing had become nearly impossible, the air refusing to enter his lungs and he could taste his own heartbeat  And bile on his tongue.

Eventually, he had calmed down, his hands had stopped shaking, he had taken long, deep breaths, even if he wasn't sure how long he had stayed there, perfectly still, in that dark bathroom, feeling ice cold even though he had been sweating.

The only silver lining, he had hoped, had been that not even Sherlock could deduce someone in the dark.

 Not surprisingly Sherlock had – just not in the way he usually did.

 Sherlock had been awake when he had come back to their bedroom, checking his mobile phone, not even looking at him when he said, “You know? I think I actually liked Anderson better when he pretended to hate me.”

"Liked?" John had asked, feeling a smile tugging at his lips, even though his hands had still been ice cold and he had still felt shaky.

"I'm being _generous_." Sherlock had replied dryly, amusement in his voice still rough with sleep.

It had been – _not_ what he had expected. Sherlock had _not_ asked him if he was alright (he honestly wouldn't have known what to say. He had felt filthy, mostly), he had not made any deduction. No. He had made him chuckle because Sherlock Holmes could make him laugh even when things were absurd and he was scared of his own mind, and then he had joined him when John had said something about Sally Donovan and it had been _amazing._

 _He_ was amazing.

Sherlock had waited a few moments after he had got back to bed, under the covers, and then his body had slid closer and there, for a moment, it had really been just the two of them: cold feet and bad nights and macabre sense of humor,  giving and offering comfort to each other and it had been good.

There were _people._ There were journalists, bloody hounds that had sniffed a trail (and they still didn’t know what had really happened, somehow Mycroft had made sure of that) and wanted to know the _truth_.

There were paparazzi, snapping pictures whenever they left Baker Street. Sherlock didn't avoid them, he was exceptionally good at ignoring them, even though his contempt for them was always clearly visible on his face and in his posture. The bruises on his face and neck had faded, so there hadn't been any other pictures of Sherlock looking too pale and thin with dark bruises on his face and stupid titles and captions on blogs and newspapers. At least, there was _that_.

There were Alyce Bradford and her parents, who wanted to express Sherlock their gratitude, but also sought justice, who didn't know that Alyce had gone through hell because of a sick game.

Alyce would probably never be a virtuoso pianist, given the way Bennett had systematically and sadistically broken her fingers and wrists (and Sherlock had been _lucky_ because Bennett had not touched his hands.). They wanted answers, but Alyce, who was so young, she was just a teenager, just wanted to stop being afraid, she just wanted her old life back.

There was Mary. She had not visited, of course; she hadn't even asked about Sherlock, not after the first phone call, but she kept in touch regularly, after days of utter silence. She had called enquiring about his remaining belongings in her flat. She had called about their joint bank account, she had informed him about the prenatal scan she was scheduled to go to;  it was the last one before the baby was borne.

He always felt tested whenever Mary called. He always waited for the other shoe to drop with her, but so far the worse it had come from Mary were snide remarks about his newfound domestic bliss with Sherlock.  And John didn't know what to make of it; he was glad that the charade was over, that the game of pretending had come to an end, but he was also worried because he remembered what she had told Sherlock in that old house, he remembered how close to the knife she had been when they had got back to Baker Street. He didn't trust Mary, he couldn't, but until the baby was born there was not much any of them could do.

There was William Moore, who had visited the flat that afternoon, with the excuse of returning Sherlock’s coat, who had looked around in their sitting room,  sporting fading bruises on his face and a haunted look in his eyes (looking like a haggard grown-up Harry Potter) and John had desperately wanted him out of their flat, because his presence had burst that flimsy appearance of normality they had tried to build.

William and Sherlock had exchanged a few words, and John had felt like he needed a bloody Rosetta Stone, because he was pretty damn sure the exchange that had taken place was riddled with further and hidden meaning.

 Sherlock had not kept him out, though. Once William had left he had said, “He was a good operative according to my brother. His skills might be useful.”

"He wants to help," John said. Because he might have missed parts of their true conversation, but he had got that. He understood that.

“He wants them _destroyed_ , John,” Sherlock said. He had frowned for a moment before adding in a low voice, almost to himself, “Love _is_ a vicious motivator.”

And it had almost been like discussing a case, a normal case, the easy back and forth between them, “I don’t understand, though. Why choose a former SIS? They knew their routines, they knew exactly when and how to strike – I can’t believe they didn’t know about his past. They even knew your name!”

Sherlock smiled at that and said, “That is not exactly classified information. Nor is the fact that I am a graduate chemist.”

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes...that’s the whole of it…_

John shook his head. "You were about to go to eastern Europe on an undercover operation," John said. And part of him was still incredulous that they had been granted another chance.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked calmly, cocking an eyebrow at his words.

“And Mycroft –“ John said, not finishing his sentence. Mycroft gave Sherlock classified information all the time. He gave Sherlock assignments.

 

_"Don't make me order you..."_

_"I would like to see you  try!"_

 

Again, Sherlock smiled, it wasn’t his real smile, but John would take it, he would take anything rather than the blank looks and silences that had been Sherlock during his stay at the hospital...our the too casual tone of his voice that made the silence around them almost shrill.

“Are you trying to ask me whether I'm a former or current SIS?" Sherlock said, with the same tone of voice he used sometimes with Lestrade when he thought Greg was being particularly dense,  but he was still smiling.

“Well, no – but are you?” John asked. And he was genuinely curious, now. Besides, everything was better than talking about the real reason why William Moore had visited them.

A flicker of something passed through Sherlock's eyes: it was something dark, cold (and only later, much later, he would understand, hear, know the cause of that look), it only lasted a moment and then Sherlock said, "In a manner of speaking, yes. But the details are _tedious_ , John."

 _Tedious,_ in Sherlock-else, meant that he  would rather have teeth pulled than talking about that specific subject.

A lot of things were _tedious_ for Sherlock, lately.

For a moment, he forgot about William Moore, though, visions of Sherlock: all graceful movements and utter brilliance as he helped saving the Country had filled his mind. He  grinned and said in a teasing tone, “My _boyfriend_ is a spy, cool!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his words (there was still something dark in his eyes, but it was thankfully fading) and said, "Truly, John!" but his smile was genuine,  it was the one meant for him only, and the thing about being in a relationship, an actual relationship with Sherlock Holmes, was that it was still a rollercoaster, nothing had  truly changed – because they could spend moments just looking at each other, without excuses or pretenses, smiling and feeling content and the next moment they would be back to talk about the _work_ , and things could become _painful._

“Yes, but – why risking with a former spy? It could have backfired spectacularly!” John asked after a moment. Because it didn’t make sense to him that they would take such a risk. What if William had _not_ relented? What if he had looked at things logically and had chosen to let them hurt Joan?

“Because he couldn’t stand to see her in pain. Any kind of pain. That is why he left his job." Sherlock said, and his voice had been too soft as he said those words, almost as if he was talking to himself.

_Human error._

 

"Do you trust him?" John asked when Sherlock didn't add more.

"I trust his motivations," Sherlock said. And his words  had been clipped, the tone of his voice curt, in contrast with how he had sounded mere seconds before.

And John recognised the signs: Sherlock was feeling _exposed,_ for some reason _,_ and he didn't like it. John knew better than talking; than asking more questions, but Sherlock could nevertheless read them easily on his face, even the ones that were lurking in the back of his mind, because he said, "I may be a lot of things, John - but I am _not_ a hypocrite!"

He spat the last word, and John understood what Sherlock might have thought. Did he think he would remind him of all the times he had talked about _human error?_

If things were different, if he knew what to expect when he touched Sherlock, he would have reached out to him. He would have _shown_ him (because he was still hopelessly rubbish with words) that he knew.

But things were _not_ different and Sherlock's mind was too quick, he was ( _not_ a victim, he was a _survivor_ and he was the strongest person he knew) stubborn and before John could do or say anything, he said, "They didn't choose them randomly, John. They didn't choose them for their appearances or their jobs or even their _names_. They knew their pressure points, just like they know _mine_. As I said I am _not_ a hypocrite. I can't begrudge William for the same choices I would have made."

And round and round they went, they always found themselves under that gray sky, Sherlock on the ledge of that bloody rooftop and John watching him, listening to his words. To his lies. Unable to stop him.

And it hurt. It would always hurt. It hurt both of them and John hated that Jim Moriarty had still that power over them.

Sherlock gingerly got up from his armchair and went to his ( _their_ ) bedroom, gently closing the door behind him.

And John closed his eyes, for a moment, because - his boyfriend (love of his life) was a spy, a genius, a man and he was utterly _human_ and he needed time.

He waited for a few more seconds and then got up from his armchair and walked to the bedroom; Sherlock had not locked the door,  He never did it anymore, because that room was theirs now: he had a drawer and room in Sherlock's wardrobe and yet  John felt a weird sense of Deja vù; he had been right outside that door the night Sherlock and he had kissed for the first time. Sherlock had felt exposed, well he had been _exposed:_ his scars fully visible, his right hand hurt and bandaged. There had been other kisses after that.

 Sherlock and he were _together_ (and they were: there would never be anyone else for him; there hadn't truly been, not since that first mad chase through London chasing a cab and an American tourist.), so he didn't hesitate, he entered the room, their bedroom, and saw Sherlock near the window; he was dressed, it wouldn't be long until Drake and Harris escorted him to Mycroft's car for their daily meeting.

"Sherlock..." John said.

Sherlock didn't say anything, he didn't even look at him, but John noticed a white envelope  in his hand. What was that?

"The car is here," Sherlock said. He turned and looked at him, "William wants to avenge what happened to Joan."

John didn't say that he shared the sentiment. He didn't need to. The envelope ended up in the pocket of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock followed his gaze, but didn't talk.

"What is it?" John asked, because - the air felt suddenly too heavy, and his heart was beating too fast in his chest for no reason and Sherlock was pale, paler than he had been a few hours earlier before William visited them.

"A letter," Sherlock said.

Had it started again? Had they somehow managed to get past the surveillance and delivered it in their bedroom?

"It's - _personal_ ," Sherlock said, and it was probably meant to reassure him, but it only made John's throat dry.

Sherlock didn't volunteer more information, because he was still feeling exposed, because he could be a bloody _idiot_ who sacrificed himself for him, but admitting it out loud made him be closed off and curt.

"It's -" Sherlock hesitated, he could see clearly that he was tempted to lie, but decided against it because he added quickly, "There is something I need to show Mycroft in it."

He moved, and for a moment John was tempted to get in the way, to block Sherlock, but he couldn't.

He didn't want to treat Sherlock like China, but he could never tell how he would react. Sherlock sensed his hesitation or deduced it, because he closed the distance between them and took his face in his hands, staring at him for a moment, before saying, "It's not only about pressure points, not like with Magnussen or Moriarty. And here lies the problem, John: I would behave like William did."

"You already have," John said, and he couldn't move a single muscle, he was unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's. He didn't want to.

"Precisely." Sherlock said after a moment (but it could have been longer), "And we are both aware of the consequences of what I did in the past. Either way, they get _results_."

Sherlock had not talked about hypothetical scenarios. Herman Bennett had somehow threatened him when they had _talked_ and Sherlock had danced to their tune, disappearing for half a day.

"Play a different game, then. Change strategy!" He said, feeling rage boiling just underneath his skin.  "I can take care of myself!" He hissed.

He needed to touch Sherlock, he needed to make sure that they were really there, that despite the wounds, the nightmares and what laid ahead of them, they had something _good,_ something real, because he felt like he was drowning in a sea of rage -- and neither of them deserved or could afford that.

Sherlock smiled, and John knew that particular smile, he had smiled like that on the Tarmac, before getting on that plane. He swallowed past the ball of fear and rage he could feel in his throat and heartbeat and touched Sherlock's face. Sherlock didn't shy away from him, he leaned into his touch, never breaking eye contact with him.

"I'll be back soon," Sherlock said, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

John nodded, feeling cold, all of sudden, when Sherlock left the room.

He had _not_ agreed to change plans, to change strategy.

Sherlock was trying, but there were things that would _never_ change. Perhaps it was up to him to play.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock hated that part of what now passed for his daily routine: sitting in a car with Mycroft (and sometimes Anthea), going over each and every detail of his two years away from London.

It was tiring (tedious) and useless going over things he had already explained and been debriefed about when he has come back.

Yet Mycroft was relentless: he was personally going over each name, place, date and thread of Moriarty's web he had plucked out.

John didn't know about the guard who had been found dead in his own bed the day after he had met Herman Bennett. Mycroft was operating under the assumption that the only safe places were his car and Baker Street, both of which were checked daily for bugs, and among people personally vetted by him.

"This is not a threat to national security, Mycroft." Sherlock had said at the beginning.

"They made it one when the late Jim Moriarty's face appeared on every screen in our country." Mycroft had replied and that had been the end of it as far as his brother was concerned.

And Sherlock didn't have it in him to be annoyed at Mycroft and his overbearing presence or his growing paranoia. Not that time, not until he was completely healed (and it was frustrating to be still so weak, to be sometimes clumsy, _he,_ of all people!)

 He couldn't really object to his brother's methods until they finished checking each and every name, location and event that had taken place while he had been away. Because he had failed. He had missed something and while he didn't particularly care about the men and women Herman Bennett had killed _because_ _of_ _him_ (to get his attention, his mind  hastily amended) he didn't want that particular tactic to be repeated if at all possible. The past few years had had already too many dead because of Jim Moriarty and his name.

Sherlock didn't know the names of all the people he had met, deceived, hurt and killed while he had been away; Mycroft did. Mycroft was thorough. He had made sure that his tracks were covered once he was done in a place, therefore, he had extensive data. But that was not the reason for their daily meetings. Mycroft might have the data, he could infer many things, but he had _not_   been there.

Sherlock had never bothered to learn those people's names, but he remembered them all: the ones he had bought information from, the ones he had lied to, those he had killed, either (mostly) in self-defense and those he had hurt in order to get the information he had needed. He also remembered those that had been collateral damage. He had deduced those people's lives, he had known who they were - he knew things that the reports didn't tell.

He remembered those faces, the texture of their skins under his hands, how they smelled, he remembered the noises of broken bones and dying breaths and the sounds of bullets being fired. It was all seared into his brain. Those were some of the things that were supposed to be sealed shut in the safest rooms of his mind palace. Those were some of the things Charles Augustus Magnussen had unleashed. That was _one_ of the reasons why he had killed him.

"Chicago," Mycroft said breaking his train of thoughts. 

Sherlock blinked his eyes. He remembered Chicago: his face being kept down in a bucket of cold water, his body weak, he had got bronchitis, after, deep and shallow cuts on his body and sprained muscles. He had fled the city while still running a high fever, and it had been bad, it had become a haze of miles and bleak motel rooms and just wanting to be _done_.

He had killed, in Chicago. He had had to.

"We have been over this yesterday," Sherlock said. Was middle age finally slowing Mycroft down?

Mycroft didn't even look up from the file he had been reading and said, "We need more data. Here..." He said handing him a manila  folder, "See if someone is missing."

He wanted to tell Mycroft that he had been sort of _tortured_ in Chicago, therefore, he might have deleted _some_ things. Just out of spite, but he didn't. It would be a lie and their _history_ was less important than what they were doing.

He opened the folder and saw the familiar faces: men and women he had got in contact with, the three men who had had a good time thinking he would break with physical pain.

Idiots. All of them: physical pain was inconvenient, true, but it took a lot more than that to break him.

Hey was _not_ broken! Those idiots had failed, Magnussen had failed and so had Herman Bennett.

"Yes. It's them. They are dead. I killed them." Sherlock said.

"All of them? As per the instructions you had been given?" Mycroft  enquired.

"Yes." He said because no one could know that he was still alive. The immediate threat to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had been dealt with, but they hadn't wanted to take any chance. The instructions had been simple and clear: dispose of all the threats.

"Therefore: the guards, the -" Mycroft started.

" _Everyone_ ," Sherlock said. The scars on his chest itched, Sherlock focused on the images in the folder. He read the names, blinking his eyes. They were dead. He had killed them; they had not been important (it was a lie, in a sense, but one he could live with). Chicago had been just one of the dozens of places he had been in.

After Chicago, things hadn't become easier, he had just got better at being what he was supposed to be: a machine. Except when the John in his mind was too loud  or he refused to get high on cocaine because he wanted to go _home._

"Even the mole?" Mycroft enquired.

Behind his matter of fact tone, Sherlock could see that Mycroft was worried about him, he was too good at reading him. But why? He was healing, he was moving on,  He had also stopped hurting his right hand whenever he felt _unreal._

Yes. He could see from the turn of his lips and the way he had adjusted on the seat that Mycroft was worried about him. Did he deduce that Moriarty's name on his chest itched and burned?

"Obviously," Sherlock said, ignoring that train of thoughts, thinking, instead, about Chicago. He had to focus, the sooner he gave Mycroft what he wanted the sooner he could go home. To John.

What he had done in Chicago had been _necessary_. And unpleasant and one of those moments where even the John in his mind had shut up. _Everything_ had had to shut up, after.

The _mole_ had had a name, a life, expectations and hopes and had met his demise on an abandoned road, a bullet to the brain and a shallow grave on the side of the road. Crude, dirty, wrong. He  had  felt empty, after and exhausted.

It had been _necessary_. It had been a matter of survival: his own and his loved ones'.

The scars on his chest were throbbing, now. Sherlock didn't move. He focused on the faces he was seeing in the folder.

"I heard William Moore paid you a visit earlier," Mycroft said, changing the subject. He would ask again about Chicago, before the end of their meeting, and Sherlock wasn't glad for that chance of subject because he knew where that conversation would go.

Sherlock, however, rolled his eyes, because those were their roles, that was what he was supposed to do whenever his brother acted as if he wasn't aware of what went on in Baker Street.

"Do you really have to be redundant?" Sherlock asked.

"We are conducting a more extensive background check on him and his betrothed," Mycroft said, ignoring his words. All according to their well-practiced way of dealing with each other. And yet it  felt off key, that day.

"How fascinating!" Sherlock said.  Everything he needed to know about William and Joan he had already deduced. He was also aware of the risks of involving William in what was going on; William would put Joan and revenge first, but as he had said to John, he was _not_ a hypocrite. Besides, he was sure Moore would call in any favour people owed him and would still be part of that - _war_ , even if they kept him out.  So, why waste time?

"I would not normally agree with his involvement in this operation, however - given the circumstances..." Mycroft trailed.

"Which _circumstances?_ " Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow. And he knew it was a mistake; he knew he should have let Mycroft talk. Because he felt, now, that a lid had been opened and Mycroft could...do or say whatever he deemed appropriate.

Mycroft didn't say anything, though. Not at first, and Sherlock could feel the seconds ticking by and he desperately wanted the scars on his chest to stop itching. He knew it was psychosomatic; there was nothing wrong  with his wounds, they were healing nicely; John was an excellent doctor, nevertheless the itching, the burning and the throbbing was _almost_ distracting.

"They might hide behind Moriarty, but I think you are aware of the _personal_ nature behind the..." Mycroft stressed the following word, " _game."_

And if it weren't Mycroft, if there weren't decades of animosity between them he would perhaps be moved by how carefully he was choosing his words; outbursts of brotherly concern, though, were not part of their relationship and he could barely take John walking on eggshells around him, he only tolerated it  from John because he realised that it wasn't easy to be with him, because there were moments he was so angry that keeping a  calm facade became nearly impossible;  there were moments where he felt numb, _unreal_ and he honestly didn't recognise his  face in the mirror or his own body. Allowing John to thread carefully around him, not being an utter arsehole, was a compromise he was willing to make.

He wanted something else from Mycroft, though.

"I inferred as much for the past fortnight, thank you!" Sherlock replied, his voice almost perfectly conveying the usual mixture of annoyance and boredom he usually had while talking to his brother.

It took effort, sometimes, not to shut down, not to let that odious numbness overcome him, it was harder than dealing with the nightmares or the fleeting seconds where being touched actually repulsed him. He knew he was _real_ after a nightmare _,_ he could feel his own body after he flinched. The numbness was the easy way out -- and he could not afford it.

Therefore, he needed Mycroft to be himself with him, he didn't need to be coddled or he would forget again who he was. And that could not happen, ever again.

"Hence our daily meetings," Mycroft said.

"And after that? Are you going to track down all my enemies? It might take a while. Don't you have a country to run, brother dear?" Sherlock said, and the vehemence in his voice  was genuine that time.

Mycroft smiled and Sherlock thought, for a moment, about that first night at the hospital, after the basement; he had said things that night, words that hadn't made sense to his own ears or brain, but Mycroft had _known_ and _understood_ even the things he had never said, those that were supposed to be sealed shut and had somehow slipped through the cracks Magnussen had created.

"I know the game they are playing,"  Sherlock said after a moment.

"I'm sure you do. The point is, Sherlock: what are you going to do?" Mycroft asked. And to a casual observer he might appear bored by that conversation, but Sherlock heard the concern in his brother's voice, he read it in the set of his shoulders.

Sherlock closed the folder in his hands. What was he going to do? What options did he actually have?

He had no idea about what their (and _God_ , he hated that he didn't know how many people were behind Bennett, how many people were in cohort under Moriarty's name.) next move would be.

He only knew that it would be _personal._ They had tried to break him: his body and pride with Herman Bennett. They had reminded him that they knew that he had a heart, that everyone had pressure points...using foils, stand-ins for John and he.

He handed Mycroft the envelope he was  keeping  in his pocket. He had not lied to John: it was personal and there was something he needed Mycroft to see in the sheets of paper inside the envelope. But there was something else as  well.

"Chicago...the whole of it. Ignore the _sentiment."_  Sherlock said.

"Don't I always?" Mycroft said. He was smiling, but now even Lestrade might be able to see the worry in his eyes.

Sherlock smiled as well.

"I take this..." Mycroft started.

"Yes. It was for him." Sherlock said. "I'd appreciate if you could see that he receives it, should..."

"No." Mycroft said, "I will _not._ "

He had raised his voice, and Mycroft only did it when he thought he was being _irrational._

He was not, though. Herman Bennett might not have wanted to kill him, but the intent of those people was loud and clear:  they wanted to destroy him.

"I am _not_ giving you my blessing to martyr yourself again, Sherlock!" Mycroft said, and Sherlock didn't remember the last time he had heard that tone of voice coming from his brother.

He loathed martyrs. He always had. He wasn't one. He wasn't a hero. He was exactly like William Moore: a highly trained agent who had done what he had been told because he couldn't stand to lose the woman he loved.

How _pedestrian._

"It's not my habit to pry into your personal life..."  Mycroft trailed and Sherlock couldn't help laughing at his words.

"Are you serious, Mycroft? I was tortured, _not_ brain damaged. You have always pried!" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft cocked his head on a side: "Never about your romantic ..."

Sherlock sighed. "A few night stands while high on cocaine don't count."  The itching was almost intolerable, now. He felt like there were ants crawling underneath his skin wanting to come out.

"Should I mention..."  Mycroft trailed.

"No, you  really shouldn't! Get to the point!" Sherlock hissed. The very last thing he needed was having Victor mentioned. It was ancient history and it didn't matter!

He needed to scratch his chest (tear the skin away, delete Moriarty's name) so badly that Mycroft must have noticed. Yet, his older brother, whom despite everything was one of the three people Sherlock trusted implicitly, the others being John and  Lestrade,  gave no outward sign of having deduced it.

"My _point_ is that losing you would destroy John Watson. Now, I don't really care about John, but I was under the impression that you did." Mycroft said - and there was almost embarrassment in his voice.

They didn't really talk about those things. It was not who they were. Mycroft would probably feel much more comfortable talking about the people he had killed during his two years away. Come to think of it so would he.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked, feeling for a moment like the child he had been, the kid who  used to  think that his big brother had always all the answers and could do no wrong.

" _Don't_ martyr yourself for John Watson. He did appallingly without you the first time." Mycroft replied.

"And I had asked you to keep an eye on him. Yet Mary slipped through the cracks." Sherlock said, deflecting.

"Her cover was solid, years in the making, I had no reason to suspect foul play."

It wasn't the first time they had that conversation. He couldn't really blame Mycroft when he'd not seen the truth either.

"Speaking about Mary, any news about her?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock's right hand twitched for a moment. He seriously considered asking the driver to pull over and get out of the car.

"She is due for a prenatal scan the day after tomorrow, John asked if she wanted him to go with her, she declined his offer. It was remarkably civil." Sherlock said.

And that was what worried him the most: Mary was _understanding._

And Sherlock didn't like it one bit, because things didn't go so smoothly, not for them. Mary was civil, a bit cold and sharp in her words to John, but she had not _reacted_ to what had happened; she had left some of John's belongings and her rings in John's old bedroom, foregoing talks about divorce, alimony and their daughter.

He wasn't fooled because Mary was many things, not all of them bad (at least for his standards), but she was not _selfless_ and, above all, she was _not_ stupid.

"You should have followed the plan., Mycroft said.

 _Right_. Mycroft Holmes and his magnificent plans; they were all logically soundproof, too bad they always included the people he loved being used as pawns, as commodities. John and he were still dealing with the consequences of one of his brother's plans.

Killing two birds with one stone had been Mycroft's plan: lull Mary (or  whatever her real name was, because neither Mycroft, John or he believed a word about what they had found in the usb drive) into a false sense of security, get into Appledore with a Trojan horse, arrest Magnussen, deal with Mary.

To say that the plan had _not_ worked was an understatement.

"There weren't any physical records in Appledore," Sherlock said. Another conversation that they had had countless times since Christmas.

"Hence, plan B which, need I remind you, was not to shoot that _man,_ in front of witnesses," Mycroft said and he sighed.

Because of course, he could kill some semi-retired criminal on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere while on an official assignment, but killing Magnussen was somehow different.

And it was. He regretted killing people, even criminals, whose only fault had been to trust him or those who had helped him to get in touch with them. He didn't regret killing Magnussen.

And Mycroft saw  it on his face, because he said, "It's regrettable because the truth about the woman you know as Mary Morstan died with him and American secret services have not been forthcoming so far."

"Send Moore. Make him an offer he cannot possibly refuse." Sherlock said.

"He wants to be here," Mycroft said.

"Pressure points, brother mine. We _all_ have them. You said he was a good agent, didn't you?" Sherlock said, the throbbing of his scars was making him nauseous, now.

"Yes. But Sherlock, regarding Mary, you know that we could take preemptive action. There is no need to send a potentially good asset away right now." Mycroft said.

And Sherlock for a moment was tempted to say yes, to let Mycroft make sure that she didn't have any  tricks up her sleeves, that John could raise his daughter, but he didn't.

God forgave him, he didn't.

 

* * *

 

"Here," John said, dressing the wounds on his chest. "All done."

John was smiling, but Sherlock could see that he was worried. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned the throbbing and itching on his chest, but John had asked him (more like ordered) him to be completely honest as far as his health was concerned.

"You lie, you hide things from me about this and I will drag you back to the hospital, Sherlock. I am not kidding!" John had said the day after they had got home.

And Sherlock had been honest. For the most part. He needed his body to heal, he _needed_ to get better.

"God, I could kill for a decent wash!" Sherlock mumbled.

John gave him a sympathetic smile, he saw him hesitate a little before touching him and Sherlock had to bit the inside of his cheeks not to snap at John. It wasn't  John's fault if his wires got crossed from time to time or he lacked rationality (control).

He intellectually knew that it wasn't his fault either, that he couldn't foresee when his body would refuse to be touched, just like there wasn't any pattern to John's dreams, which were troubling him.

They were stuck in a rut of traumas, unspoken fears and complicated things (feelings), but he _refused_ to let Herman Bennett and the people above him have _that_. He refused to let them break them.

"You could help me, if...." Sherlock trailed not completely sure of how he was supposed to finish his sentence.

John's eyebrows shot high at his words. They were in their bedroom. Somehow John never chose the bathroom for that part of their daily routine and Sherlock was okay with that.

There were things he would (could) never, _ever_ tell John -- dark moments, after he had come back, hours flown by without him noticing, while the water in the bathtub became too cold and the lights were switched off and his stash of cocaine had been so tantalizingly close and yet he had not moved.

Quite frankly, it was none of John's business, but if they went to the bathroom he would see the broken mirror and Sherlock would be able to read the questions in John's eyes -- and answering them would require a strength he honestly couldn't muster at the moment.

So, yes, he'd rather be in that room.  It was _good_. It smelled like John and him, it was where John would carefully drape an arm around his sides, right before he fell asleep, where he could feel him close and somehow it was different than during the day.

John was looking at him, a confused (and scared and hopeful - and _God,_ would that kaleidoscope of looks and feelings flicking on John's face ever cease to amaze him?) look on his face.

"I mean, only if you're _amenable_ ," Sherlock said giving what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"I -- yes, of course," John said. "I'll be right back!"

Sherlock nodded.

That could be a disaster. He was aware of that. He knew that there  was a reason for the way his body reacted when touched. He knew that there were things lurking (festering) inside of him that he couldn't just shove in some dungeon of his mind palace and pretend they had never happened.

And he was past the point of denial. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was human. Like everybody else.

But he wanted his life back.

 

* * *

 

_"The worst thing was that he never shut up. The rest was repugnant, of course. It was painful, but the things he said -- the way he talked to me, **at** me was intolerable." Sherlock's voice was muffled against his neck but John heard him._

_He didn't know which was worse: the detached tone of Sherlock's voice or the way his heartbeat, that he's could feel under his palm was betraying his partner's apparent detachment._

_Who the fuck was he kidding?_

_The worst thing was that it had happened -- and he hadn't got there in time._

* * *

 

John took deep calming breaths in the bathroom while he gathered what he'd need to help Sherlock.

He was good at compartmentalize. He could do that.

Sherlock was -- a hurricane, he was the bravest person he had ever met. He was the love of his life and he had come back from his daily meeting with Mycroft looking ashen and tired.

If he needed a bloody sponge bath he would give it to him. Even if he would flinch when he touched him.

It didn't matter.

 

* * *

 

_"I was not a virgin. Just so you know." Sherlock said. "Even though it is mostly a social construct I've never understood anyway."_

_John didn't say anything. A small part of him was nonetheless relieved at Sherlock's words. It had been one of the hundreds things that had weighed down on him for the past two weeks._

_He didn't feel any better, though._

_"I hadn't been sexually active for a long time, though." Sherlock added as an afterthought._

_He wanted to ask how long, but that could wait. Sherlock was talking and he didn't dare to stop him._

_"But then again,"  Sherlock said after a moment of silence, "that was not sex."_

_"No, it wasn't." John murmured._

* * *

 

Sherlock had not moved, he was still sitting at the edge of the bed, still wearing his trousers and his unbuttoned shirt.

That was their bedroom, John reasoned. That was Sherlock and him at the end of yet another day. He placed the things he had brought from the bathroom on the chair in front of the bed and said, "I'm ready when you are."

He saw that Sherlock was fighting the impulse to say something harsh, he was doing that a lot lately. He wasn't like while he had been in the hospital, that hollowness had disappeared,  he was making an effort, now, for him.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't talk, he didn't say that it was just a sponge bath, that he ought to stop treating him as if he feared he would fall to pieces at any given moment.

He didn't fear that.

Not anymore.

He helped Sherlock dress and undress every day. It wasn't strictly necessary, but neither of them had commented on that.

"Right..." John said.

He moved slowly, not that it would make any difference if...if that wasn't a good moment.

 

* * *

 

_"I knew he wouldn't kill me. Even when he said he would. I have seen people who really wanted me dead. Bennett wanted what Jim Moriarty never could accomplish." Sherlock said._

_He had not talked for a few moments. His long fingers were tracing patterns on the skin of his firearms.  John wondered whether Sherlock was even aware of his gestures. He didn't dare say anything in case he might stop._

_"He undressed me. I should have killed him right there. But I didn't." Sherlock said._

_John wanted Sherlock to shut up, he didn't want him to go on. It would make it all real. But that wasn't about what he wanted -- or about what Sherlock wanted. The words just flew out of  Sherlock's mouth, his deep, calm  voice filling those gaps that had been there for two weeks._

_"Are you not going to ask me why I didn't?" Sherlock enquired. And there was uncertainty in his voice._

_If he said that it didn't matter Sherlock would stop talking. He knew that, the same way he knew that they were in that bed awkwardly trying to be in each other's arms despite the wounds on Sherlock's body._

_He could not fail Sherlock. Not that time._

_"I have wondered." He replied truthfully._

_"I don't know why I didn't, John. I was not afraid of him. Being held at a gunpoint was nothing new for me." Sherlock said. And his fingers stopped ghosting over his skin._

_"I don't know." He repeated._

* * *

 

 

Sherlock's skin was soft, but John already knew that. He was also breathtakingly beautiful and after years spent looking at that man (and silently loving him)  he was starting to think he would never get used to how he still could take his breath away.

He slowly undressed Sherlock; there was nothing sexual about what he was doing, in what they were doing, nevertheless his senses were completely focused on what was going on, because that was different; that was Sherlock trying to heal them both. He had cured his psychosomatic limp with a mad chase through London, could they have yet another miracle?

Sherlock was still too pale (what the hell had Mycroft and he talked about?), but he was smiling, he was...trusting him.

Now he only needed to trust himself.

"John," Sherlock said, breaking the spell of silence that had fallen in the room.

"Yes," John said.

"It's fine. It's all fine." Sherlock said. And John smiled; hadn't he, said, those exact words during their first dinner together?

He nodded at Sherlock and finally touched him.

Sherlock didn't flinch and John felt his own muscles relax a little. He didn't need to say a word, Sherlock moved, helping him with the task. He was closer to Sherlock than a normal sponge bath would allow, and his gestures were, perhaps, too slow and deliberate, but neither of them talked.

There wasn't nothing sexual in his gestures, nevertheless he could feel arousal humming just underneath his skin -- and he blinked, in surprise, when he saw that Sherlock was not immune either.

That was a terrible, terrible idea.

* * *

 

_"He stunned me. The tox screen was negative, as you are aware, but I am positive I was drugged while unconscious," Sherlock said, "if anything, trust my history with drugs."_

_And John realised he had never asked how and when he had started using. It was the wrong moment  and thing to ask, that would have to wait, so he could only say, "I told you already, I believe you."_

_Sherlock looked at him, his hair was ruffled and his eyes bright, stormy gray, mesmerizing._

_"You really do." He said after a second._

_John wanted desperately to kiss him. He needed to, but that wasn't the right moment._

_"Yep."_ The only time I didn't believe you was when you told me you were a fake. _He thought._

_"He...was eager to begin." Sherlock said, as if he was talking about buying the milk. He was in control of his breathing, of his body, only his heartbeat had quickened._

* * *

 

"John..." Sherlock said suddenly and when John looked at him he saw how dilated his pupils had got.

A breath, then another.

It was wrong. It was too soon. Sherlock wasn't ready. _He_ wasn't ready.

Sherlock moved half a step, millimetres, really, but John was acutely aware of everything: Sherlock looking at him, the way his own body yearned to be closer to Sherlock's, the way Sherlock's skin smelled of soap and antibiotic cream.

They were sharing a bed, but that felt different, it _was_ different.

"Sherlock..." He breathed.

And then Sherlock's hands on his shoulders as he craned his neck to better look at him.

"You want me." Sherlock said. And it was true. He had wanted him for so long, even before he realised how madly in love he was with  that man.

"But you won't have intercourse with me," Sherlock said. He didn't sound angry or disappointed. He sounded tired and defeated.

And he hated that the man's shoulders were minutely sagging.

"I'm aware that it's not a panacea, John, that I wouldn't be magically healed should we have sex." Sherlock said.

A few years before he would have said that there was nothing wrong with him (adding that he didn’t have friends, while still scared out of his mind),  but then he had faked his own death and spent the following two years dismantling an international crime organization, collecting scars and words in foreign languages that he mumbled in his dreams.

Correction: nightmares.

Hell, just a couple of weeks before, while in the hospital, he still had acted as nothing at all had happened.

He was _painfully_ honest now.

"But...." John said. "There is a but coming, isn't there?"

Sherlock's hands trailed up and cupped his face. And God, he _loved_ that man, he loved the feeling of his hands on his body.

"I want our lives back." Sherlock said. And John knew that there was _more_ , because Sherlock would not change strategy; he would dance to those bastards' tune, like a puppet on a string, because he couldn't begrudge William Moore for the same choices he would make and _had_ made in the past.

He wasn't deflecting, he wasn't talking about how fucking scared John was, not directly, he said he wanted their lives back. He still didn't say that he wanted a future. With him.

 

* * *

 

_"He made me list things, he wanted to be sure I could and would not access my mind palace," Sherlock said, "Bones, muscles, blood ... the periodic table. Whatever stuck his fancy."_

_John closed his eyes. He had hoped that Sherlock could, at least, have that. How naïve. He should have known._

_"He wasn't the first who used that trick with me," Sherlock said, casually, "Bennett was adamant, though."_

_Of course he was. He was obsessed with Sherlock.  That much he had  inferred from their meeting; and from the pictures both sent to Sherlock and the ones found in Herman Bennett’s house, it had been a long, cultivated obsession._

_“He knew that I have a high tolerance of physical pain, but that didn’t stop him. He went on because he could, There was a pause and then Sherlock added quickly, “he was enjoying himself too much.”_

* * *

 

 

In a perfect, ideal world, they would be kissing, their bodies pressed so flush against each other’s, so much  that there would be no telling where one ended and the other began. They were not living in a perfect or ideal world, though. Not even close. 

They were in their bedroom, in Baker Street, arousal thick and vibrant between them, but they were not moving, they were staring at each other, while the words Sherlock had said still hovered over them.

Neither of them was saying a word, because talking about feelings was like pulling teeth for both of them – and that was their life, their future at stake. And Sherlock was proud, brave, strong  and so bloody unpredictable that John did not know what to say and how to say it.

He could not tell him that he was terrified at the idea of hurting him, that he was not ready, that he counted himself lucky if one night went on and neither of them dreamt about that bloody basement.

He could not tell him that he honestly, genuinely didn’t think that he was ready, that he flinched and he looked like he wanted to peel off his own skin sometimes when he touched him, and John _knew_ that it was driving him crazy – that he did not accept not to be in control of his own body and mind.

He could not even tell Sherlock that he was over forty years old and he didn’t think he had ever wanted someone as much as he wanted him.

He didn’t need to.

Sherlock Holmes could not stop being himself, not even then.

“I know you would never do anything I didn’t want.” Sherlock said. And, God, were they really having that conversation?

“We have all the time –“ John trailed. But it was a lie, it felt like a lie. It tasted bitter on his tongue and he closed his eyes, while Sherlock was still cradling his face in his hands.

“I am aware that _this_ can’t be overcome overnight.” Sherlock said, “Not even I can do that.”

 

_“No one can be that clever…”_

_“You could…”_

_The sound of Sherlock’s chuckle made John’s heart stutter in his chest, it made the situation suddenly very real. Sherlock was really on the ledge of St. Bart’s rooftop, he was really considering the idea of killing himself. He was trying to convince him that he was a fraud, that he was not a genius and it didn’t make sense._

_Nothing was making sense._

 

He didn’t even know whether Sherlock would have wanted to have sex with him under other circumstances. He didn’t even know how many lovers (if any) Sherlock had had.

“John.” Sherlock said, “I am _not_ using you to _heal_ ,” John heard the disgust in Sherlock’s words. He opened his eyes and said, “I know.”

“And I’m not _broken._ ” Sherlock said, and how could he defy the laws of physics and get even closer to him? There was no breathing space between them, he was acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock was basically naked, except for his pants, while he was completely dressed – and his throat was suddenly dry, with that knowledge.

“I shall not lose you over this!” Sherlock said after a moment.  _This_ being what had happened with Herman Bennett, what they would undoubtedly face once the radio silence from those  people would end. And yet those bwords felt like a vow, like an oath. One he couldn't help but reciprocating.

“You won’t.” John said.

Sherlock nodded. He looked tired, exhausted but he had accepted his refusal to have sex with him. Even if they had danced around the words, like they were so good at doing.

“Should we continue with the sponge bath?” Sherlock asked briskly.

John nodded. Sherlock did the same.

“I – won’t be a moment.” John said, crouching to take the sponge from the floor (he hadn’t even noticed he had dropped it).

He retrieved the other items from the chair and left the bedroom. When he came back, he was naked.

Sherlock was trusting him, completely. It was only fair he did the same.

 

* * *

 

 _“To use a colloquialism, I had dodged that particular bullet until then,” Sherlock said,_ _“my previous encounters with coercion, didn’t include_ that,”

_Still dancing around the words, as if it made a difference. Mycroft had told him that he couldn’t even say the word, let alone accept that it had happened, but Sherlock was doing the same._

_Sherlock didn’t add anything more about the subject, he only said, “After the first time – he used the cattle prod. And then he started to carve Moriarty’s name. I already knew that blood and inflicting pain was arousing for him. I had underestimated how much, though.”_

* * *

 

If Sherlock was surprised to see him naked (and _still_ aroused, despite everything) he didn’t show it. He didn’t say a word and John was grateful. He started washing Sherlock’s back, carefully, his movements never hesitant. He was not looking at Sherlock’s scars. He knew them by heart, now. He knew each and every of them, he knew Sherlock would never tell him a word about them, therefore he tried his best to pretend that they didn’t matter.

“You never cease to amaze me, John…” Sherlock said, and there was amusement in his voice.

“I take it as a compliment coming from you.” John replied, and he loved that Sherlock was relaxing, he could see it in his posture, in how his voice had dropped.

“It is.” Sherlock said, “although I wonder – would it make any difference to you if I told you that I do want to have –“ he stopped talking and then said, “I do want to make love to you. I have wanted for years?”

“Years, uh?” John asked, as he dried Sherlock’s back.  He had to crouch to start with Sherlock’s legs, and Sherlock’s words, _really_ weren’t helping things.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, “I thought it was fairly obvious at this point.”

“There were moments where I was sure that you –“

“I was an idiot.” Sherlock said, interrupting him, “And you were in denial.”

 John stopped with what he was doing. Sherlock had lovely legs (he had been in denial, but he had _never_ been blind), he rinsed the sponge in the bucket and casually said, “You still would have jumped.”

Sherlock turned at those words, he saw the flicker oh pain pass through his eyes, due to his abrupt movement, but he was quick to hide it.

Silence fell around them, as neither of them moved, for a moment. John held Sherlock’s gaze, accepting the hand he offered to help him up without saying a word.

Words; those they had said, the painful ones they had exchanged for the past two weeks, the ones still unsaid, all the logical reasons why they should not be that close, why their lips should not brush against each other’s ceased to matter.

Sherlock kissed him. He kissed him like it was the first time, only without tasting tears and fears and doubts in the back of their throats; he kissed him like he always did: with abandon and wonder, as if he still didn’t believe it that it was really happening.

And John kissed him back, his hands on Sherlock’s biceps craning his neck and sighing in his partner’s (love of his life, almost lover, center of his life) mouth.

They moved and stumbled and stopped, because that was not a movie, Sherlock’s wounds were real and they could _not_ take risks, they could not be careless.

 "I used to dream that I didn't jump off that rooftop. I dreamt about not caring about Moriarty's words." Sherlock panted against his lips, when they broke the kiss (John wouldn’t have been able to say how long it had been since the first touch of Sherlock’s lips)

He was looking at him, arousal in his eyes and in the way his hips were seeking friction against his own.

John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, their legs were entwined, and he could feel arousal throbbing, but he ignored it, even if his body was reacting to Sherlock’s movements against his own body.

"I could hear the shots, I didn't see Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson die. But I always saw you being shot." Sherlock continued, his voice deep and hoarse with arousal – and _sentiment._

“There is _no_ universe where I would let that happen, John.” Sherlock said.

“I would have waited for you.” John said, “I should have waited for you then…”

“I would have come back.” Sherlock said. He kissed him, again, and John stilled, for a moment, when he felt Sherlock’s hand trail down, between them.

“If you don’t believe anything else I will ever say, please know this: I will _always_ come back for you.”

It was wrong. It would not heal them. Not the fact that Sherlock was jacking them both off, and it was breathtaking, it was his undoing –

No. Sherlock was promising him the one thing he wanted, needed.

A future.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an: err...yes, I do think Sherlock used to be MI6 or MI5, that's my personal headcanon:)  
> as always I apologise for any grammar mistake you'll find, I don't have a beta and English still kicks my ass :)


	14. ~ Before and Now ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years later he would think about what ifs. What if he had met Jim Moriarty right after Victor had left? He would have joined forces with him in a heartbeat. He would have done anything to make that cacophony in his head stop.   
> He had not met Moriarty. He had started with cocaine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos, the feedback and the brit pick (working on correcting the past chapters!).  
> I'm actually quite nervous about this part - and what's to come. Hope you all like it! (and read the tags, just in case!)  
> Sorry, so sorry for any mistake you might find, I try to correct them all, but I always miss something *blushes*  
> I can't believe that this, which was supposed to be a ficlet turned into a 100k + mammoth of angst and feels:)

 

_*_

_~ Before ~_

Victor was not a bad person. That much Sherlock knew. He was smart, which had come as a surprise to Sherlock; meeting someone whose brain wasn't completely atrophied or whose size didn't resemble a walnut had been oddly refreshing.

What had shocked him, what he couldn't have anticipated even if he had thought that such an occurrence might happen, was how distracting his physical appearance would become to him.

That was – not odd in itself, but it was definitely new.

Contrary to popular belief (all his classmates at school, Mycroft, mummy, and father, just to name a few), he _had_ a sexual drive: keeping it under control, not being enslaved by the chemistry behind those primeval urges had never been difficult for him.

He was smart, smarter than that - mastering his physical urges was _fun._ He would _never_ be a prey of base impulses, that was something he was very resolute about. Sentiment and lust were dangerous disadvantages, they caused havoc in one's body and mind. He was better than that.

Yet, Victor was different. He was - _intriguing_.

Perhaps it was the fact that he honestly didn't care about his own family's money or that studying together actually meant what it was supposed to mean. Unlike other peers (and Sherlock used that term _very_ broadly) he wasn't using him to pass difficult tests only to laugh at him and call him a  freak, after.

Not that he cared that they did, he had only been _surprised_ when Victor hadn't been like the others.

Perhaps it was the fact that they shared similar physical features, that he was too tall and thin, perhaps it was the fact that he loved chemistry almost as much as he did, that he actually didn't find it weird (freakish) that he could lose track of time and be totally devoted to his experiments; after all his love for physics and astronomy was all encompassing.

Victor was _attractive_ and Sherlock was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the way his own body reacted to Victor's proximity. Ignoring his sex drive required more effort and, to his chagrin, he wasn't always successful.

And he had no clue about what to do. He was peripherally aware of the fact that Victor found him physically attractive, but he had been good at ignoring the signs until then. Part of him was starting to wonder why was he exhausting his energies, why wasn't he -- giving in.

Mycroft always claimed that caring was a dangerous disadvantage. It had been something he had repeated ad nauseam and, even if he would never admit it to him, he knew that his brother was rarely wrong.

Mycroft wasn't there, though, Sherlock _was_ and when Victor knocked at his door that day, with a feeble excuse, he couldn't help the little smile that he could feel curling his lips, together with the now-familiar spikes of lust he felt in his gut.

_*_

_"It's five grands, and I owe them," Alex said. They had been careful, to the point of paranoia, but with the lives they lead (used to lead, in her case), they could never be_ too _careful._

_"You don't owe them and we don't need five grands! We're fine!" She said._

_"It's a delivery drive, sweetheart. I'll take the first red eye flight to Europe and be home tomorrow, piece of cake! Besides, they already gave me five grands. The rest of it after the job is done!"_

_She sighed, running a hand through her hair. It was honey blonde now, she was keeping it long, usually picked in a ponytail or a braid. It was such stark contrast with her previous looks._

_Details were important, though. Details made all the difference. That  was one of the first lessons she had been taught: not to disguise herself, but to_ become _whom she was supposed to be, even for short jobs; she had been a quick learner and she had mastered that skill._

_"Sweetie, are you there?" Alex asked. Those burning phones were crap, but beggars couldn't be choosers and satellite phones defeated the purpose of keeping a low profile._

_"I don't like it." She said. Her accent slipped, but she didn't notice it. She would remember it later when she replayed that conversation in her head over and over._

_"What's not to like? This isn't my first rodeo, sweetheart! And it isn't about the money. I_ owe _them and I want to clear the air before I leave. The same way you did. No loose threads, no debts, no crap, remember?" Alex said, and for a moment, she envied his calm._ She _of all people!_

_Years, months of careful preparation, of necessary sacrifices, of waiting  -- and then setting up shop, building their life together, brick after brick. There could never be loose threads. That was a no-brainer. He was right._

_Alex was good at what he did, she reminded herself. But she still couldn't help the thread of worry she could feel in her gut. And she_ always _trusted her gut._

_"Call me when you're done," She said, "I want to hear from you the minute you're done, use the landline if necessary. Understood?"_

_He didn't reply. Not right away and when he did he almost slipped up and said her name, her real name. He was the only one who knew it. Weird, so had she with his._

_No names. That was one of the rules. Names were traceable and they couldn't be traced, not at that point._

_"Yes, mother." He said teasingly. And that time_ his _own accent slipped. She would always remember that._

_"I mean it."  She said._

_He chuckled. God, she missed him! Three years and half of phone calls, of meeting each other just for a few hours in random airports all over the world, dodging surveillance cameras and hiding, of stolen weekends, of coded messages, of building their new lives while constantly watching their backs from their enemies and their past._

_It had been exhausting, but it had been worth it. For Alex everything was._

_Alex had wanted her to disappear first; because her past was more fraught with deaths, with wet jobs for branches of three letters agencies that weren't even supposed to exist and whose policy was to leave no witnesses behind,_ ever _; her old life was filled with hits that had caused wars in small countries no one in the western world had even heard about, but where diamonds, drugs and weapons were sold and fortunes built; her past was filled with innocents who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had needed to disappear before they got her. Alex had been adamant. He had saved her life._

_It was Alex's turn, at long last._

_"I miss you." He said._

_"Then get here as soon as you can!" She said with a smile. She checked her watch: time was up; she would have to get rid of the phone before she went to work and use another. It'd be the last time._

_She didn't say that she missed him too._

_"Be careful." She said, instead._

_She didn't say that she loved him, even if she usually did._

_"Goodbye, sweetheart."  Alex said and, for a moment, she wanted to say, "Take it back!", she wanted him to laugh at her words and tell her that he was_ always _careful and that she worried too much._

_She didn't. She didn't say a word, Alex disconnected the call and she automatically disassembled the phone, muscle memory  taking over._

_That was the last time she would ever hear from Alex. The woman known as Mary Morstan: the cute, friendly nurse who had a nice house in the suburbs, would later take a flight, using another alias, for the States. She would ask questions, she would shatter kneecaps with bullets and break bones with her bare hands, she would be restless, ruthless, merciless. She would have her answers._

_She would find Alex's remains, eventually, and have a proper funeral for him. She would be the only attendant._

_She would not shed a tear. Not then. Not during her way back to London either._

_She had what she had been looking for, what she had killed for; a name._ The _name._

_Once upon a time, before she had fallen in love she had been a force to be reckoned with; she had never, ever failed. Being a killer was not how she had imagined her life would be like. She had also stopped using excuses as to why she did what she did. She killed people because she was good at it and it paid well, that was the truth. It wasn't pretty, but truths rarely were._

_She had been good, excellent even -- but what she had always loved the most about her job was the preparation, the evaluation of the subject, of the scene, the choice of the most effective weapon and the right moment to kill._

_That was what she had really excelled at. Before her life as paid assassin, she had also been an excellent analyst. That was how she had begun, a long time before._

_She still was good at that. She would always be._

_And she had nothing, no one to lose now, thanks to Sherlock Holmes._

_*_

Victor was gone. Long life to Victor and his promises, his words of love, his trite _sentiment_.

Facts were all that mattered.

He had left because MIT wanted him because he was too good at what he did because, "Living with you, loving _you_ is driving me crazy, Sherlock. I can't. I just can't..."

And the most absurd thing of all, "I'm not even sure that you bloody care anyway!"

He had left, gone to the United States, putting an ocean between them, because Sherlock was not supposed to have _that._ People like him (freaks, cold unfeeling arseholes, fucking psychopaths, and cockteases) were supposed to be _alone_.

While Victor was leaving, Sherlock had kept a carefully blank look on his face as the man packed his things, he had read a chemistry book as Victor did his damnest to make noise (as if he didn't know, hadn't heard, hadn't seen.), to make his goodbye as boisterous as possible. He had succeeded.

And then _silence_. Silence had been everywhere, after: in his (their) room. In the small sitting room, all around him outside, but not where it _mattered_. Not inside of him.

Victor and he, kissing for the first time, under a falling snow, like in a bad cliche. And it had felt anything but cliched. It had been real. It had truly happened and now Victor was gone.

Victor making tea for them both, listening to him as he  played the violin, a smile on his lips, his blue eyes focused on him.

"I love Bach." He had said once.

"Amateur..." Sherlock had replied with a smirk.

"Oh, blow me, Holmes!" Victor had said, laughing (never at him, always _with_ him) and he had. He had blown Victor right there, in that sitting room,  drunk on the chemicals in his body that had made him want that ridiculous, kind giant of a man.

Victor in his bed, ignoring his insomnia, only complaining about his cold feet.

Victor and his love for space, planets, galaxies, stars and supernovas.

Victor and how he, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, had destroyed everything because he was supposed not to get attached, because caring was not an advantage and his brain was on _fire_ , his heart was not supposed to _hurt_.

 _He_ was not supposed to hurt.

Years later he would think about what ifs. What if he had met Jim Moriarty right after Victor had left? He would have joined forces with him in a heartbeat. He would have done anything to make that cacophony in his head stop.

He had not met Moriarty. He had started with cocaine.

Cocaine was the solution and it came only a few days later Victor left, thanks to one of those insufferable future economists or barristers (or whatever those dull people wanted to do with their useless lives) he sometimes had the misfortune to meet.

 He would always remember everything about that first time, he would feel at peace, he would not feel like his brain was splintering. He would never remember, though, that he had worn one of Victor's shirts while he shot up for the first time.

 

 

*

_Mary Morstan was kind, she had excellent bedside manners, she always smiled, she knew how to make friends._

_She did all that, even while spending sleepless nights getting deeper and deeper into the underbelly of the internet, using those skills she had acquired long before she had bought her current identity  (there were others: names and identities she had collected through the years as insurance) to gather information, to do what needed to be done ._

_Mary Morstan was never late for work, she was competent, efficient, she knew how to become  indispensable._

_Mary Morstan was patient; when her name, her hair, and accent had been different, she had once spent twelve hours crouched down on a rooftop waiting for the perfect shot. It had come. Of course, it had. Failure was never an option with her._

_She was also rich. The money that would have bought her a future (with Alex) was untouched, it sat on offshore accounts, just a few clicks away._

_She had also been very good at collecting favors and people who owed her debts of gratitude over the years. One of her bosses had once called her Rumpelstiltskin because one could never know how our when she would collect her debts and what she would ask in return for the favors she had made._

_He had been right, in a sense._

_She was hard at work, now, waiting, waving and starting to collect._

_*_

He would do. He wasn't too tall, his hair wasn't too dark, his eyes were _not_ blue.

Who was he trying to fool? He was so high that he would have intercourse with a lamppost.

Cocaine didn't usually increase his sexual drive; whatever kind of concoction he had smoked was, though.

The man smiled, Sherlock didn't care.

Before --- _before_ he had gone out looking for a nice fix there had been a phone call, from Victor. Or had he gone out for a fix _after_ Victor had called? He didn’t remember, it didn’t matter.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock." Victor had said.

Silence.

What was he supposed to say?

"You know I do not celebrate." He had eventually replied.

_Why did you leave?_

_Why was I not enough?_

"I still lo - care, about you. I always will." Victor had said. And he wasn't lying. He never did. Unlike him, Victor was incapable of lying.

"Please, do _not_ call any more." Sherlock had said coldly because that was what he was always supposed to be like.

Victor had been an aberration. He had learned his lesson.

The man gestured to follow him to the bathroom and Sherlock categorically ignored each and any detail about him. He wasn't there to _deduce_ him. He was there to shag. Crude, base, plebeian, but nonetheless true.

Oh, living the clichè of the junkie on the prowl for casual sex. How quaint. How decadent and apt.

He squared his shoulders and followed him.

Lips meeting, tongues dancing (kissing was _not_ something he enjoyed); the man (Daniel? David? Who cared!) knew what he was doing, though.

Good. Excellent.

The bathroom stall wasn't too dirty, but Sherlock didn't care, not when the man gracefully dropped to his knees, a lewd look on his face as he freed his erection from the tight confines of his clothing.

Victor had been his first lover and would be the only one of he could help it; physical release with strangers didn't count. That man was admittedly good, though: suction, velvety heat, just the tiny hint of teeth. And Sherlock gave in: he closed his eyes, his fingers digging into the man's shoulder, his hips desperately trying to keep up with the rhythm the man had set up.

He tensed, for a fraction of second, when he felt a man's digit press against his hole.

 _Right._ He had deduced _that._ The man had stared at his backside since the first moment he had laid eyes on him.

Any objection he might have had eclipsed when the man (Darius? Danny?) showing a lack of gag reflex he frankly admired swallowed around him, taking him deeper and deeper, until he could feel the man's nose flush against his pubes.

Orgasms with Victor had always been like explosions, leaving him breathless and smiling like an idiot, after.

That was different: it _was_ intense, because he hadn't had anyone since Victor had left (him) and because he was high and he didn't _care_ about that young fellow; he wanted to take and take and take, ride that wave of chemicals, empty himself into that man's willing throat and just forget about that phone call, about the silence in the flat and everything that had come before.

And he did; he climaxed without  uttering a sound because he might have said Victor's name or some other useless, trite, sentimental rubbish like that.

He wanted something else.

"You're not much of a talker, aren't you?" The man (Damien? Dylan?) chuckled seconds later while still wiping his mouth, his voice was hoarse and Sherlock shivered with post orgasmic chills and felt oddly proud of how wrecked the man's voice sounded.

"Not really," Sherlock said and Victor's voice over the phone, how his heart had actually hurt in his chest when he had heard the deep baritone, seemed far away.

"Good, now turn around, gorgeous..." He said.

Sherlock did and he couldn't help rolling his eyes a little at that endearment.

"I'll be gentle..." The man panted against his neck, licking then the shell of his ear.

 

_"You will never change. But I meant it. I will always care about you." Victor said before hanging up and he sounded sad. Even with an ocean between them he still made Victor sad._

"Don't bother."  Sherlock hissed.

It was good, it wasn't too painful, but then again he was high: cocaine, hashish and whatever his dealer had given him.

He let out a moan, when the man _finally_ penetrated him (just his luck: a somewhat considerate sexual partner who was happy to shag him in a bathroom stall, but still wasted time loosening him up, as if they were _making_ _love,_ as if he hadn't told him not to bother. _),_ and it was what he needed: grunts, the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the burning, the fullness, the white sparks of pleasure when the man hit his prostate, the man's hands gripping his hips, his own cheek pressed against the white tiles.

Pleasurable and slightly degrading, just like he had hoped it would be, especially when the man (he settled on Darren for the name) began panting _things_ in his ear, "Fuck, yeah...so tight, so fucking tight for me, aren't you, gorgeous?"

He started to delete the solar system from his mental hard drive as he politely waited for Darren to reach his climax.

 

*

 

_Alex had proposed eight weeks after they had started dating. He had proposed over breakfast (or an extremely late dinner since they had finished a job at the ass crack of dawn)._

_He had proposed while they ate hamburgers and drank tepid bottled water._

_She had cried with joy and said yes, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly on the lips._

_They had made love in the kitchen, after, and it had been the second best day of her life._

_The wedding day was the best, most perfect day of her life: it had been just the two of them, exchanging words, solemn promises and smiles; they didn't exchange wedding rings, they had tattoos made instead: symbols that only the other would understand. They started to think about a way out, about their future away from death and hit jobs during their honeymoon._

_They were in love. Two killers madly in love with each other. Who would have thought?_

_They both had had lovers (and would have more if the jobs required them), but she had only been truly in love once: with her husband._

_Not even death could change that._

_Years later she would not pretend the tears that welled up her eyes when John Watson finally got his shit together and proposed to her._

_The fact that they weren't tears of joy was insignificant._

_*_

His work was the only thing that mattered. Whether it was tasks assigned by his brother or solving crimes for the police, Sherlock had found something that gave him some sort of _balance._

Mycroft had failed when he had tried to make him quit drugs: rehab, intellectual reasoning had fallen on deaf ears, but the _game,_ the elation that came with it had had Sherlock hooked.

Greg Lestrade had simply told him to clean up his act if he wanted to be allowed anywhere near a crime scene in London and he had meant every syllable.

He had complied. He was clean, for the first time since uni. He would always hold a grudge against Mycroft for the way he had used him during some of the assignments, for the way he had used what had happened with Victor to recruit him for his little tasks, those apparently mundane codes to crack that ended up starting wars, but he would always be grateful to Lestrade.

 

*

 

 _Alex had driven her to the bus station. They had driven to the other side of the country, first, after they had made her "disappear". It had taken them weeks to put the plan in motion: find the right substitute, make sure no one would look for her, alter the few existing records (they both knew that there was more, but deleting and alter all the records would attract more attention, so they had been careful).  And then there came the wait for the right moment, the right way to_ die _._

_It had gone without a hitch, she considered it a successful operation._

_They had waited, after, just the right amount of time where Alex taking a few days off wouldn't have made anyone suspicious._

_She was holding his hand, holding onto it for dear life, feeling like the child she had once been, feeling scared._

_"We could drive to the border, don't you have friends in El Rey?" She asked suddenly._

_"Secret services and mafia would be on us within a week," Alex replied with a sad smile. They had examined every scenario, from every angle (the perks of being both extremely good at what they did) and the only solution was the one they were employing._

_They stopped walking, they were in front of the bus. It would take forever to get to London and she would begin her journey by bus._

_"I don't want to go..." She whispered against his chest when he  enveloped her in his arms._

_She had been nicknamed Lady Death, the Ice Queen, the Cold Bitch -- until Alex had come into her life. She looked at him, her vision blurred with tears, his brown eyes were filled with worry and the beginning of tears.  She took a deep breath and smiled, saying, "I'm being childish, sorry."_

_Alex kissed her and she would always remember that kiss, how desperate and afraid they had both been._

_She would feel that kiss keenly, a ghost feeling, perhaps, but nonetheless heartbreaking for her years later, on a cruelly sunny day, during Alex's funeral._

_*_

When Sherlock Holmes met John Watson he hadn't had sex for about five years. He had not missed it, on the contrary, life had become simpler, cleaner, free from useless distractions.

No one who looked at the man impeccably dressed in his designer clothes, wearing an outrageously priced coat would imagine about the times he had had sex in back alleys, bathroom stalls, dingy rooms with men (and a couple of women as well) whose names  he didn't even bother to learn most of the times.

Things with John became complicated almost right away because it was _never_ about sex. He could easily ignore the attraction he  felt  for John, he was good at pretending that it wasn't there. Whenever he had been tempted to give in, thinking about Victor, about what had happened when he had left (because everyone left eventually), had been enough to stop him, to remind him that the work was enough. That he was above that.

His heart, though, could just not shut up.

He had accused Irene Adler of letting her heart rule her head, but he had done the same exact thing without thinking twice with John, without realizing it until much later, when it became impossible to ignore.

He had not even looked at Victor when he had left, but he had taught John how to waltz when he was about to get married to Mary Morstan.

He had refused to hear from Victor, after --- but he had stood in front of John Watson on a Tarmac, knowing he would never see him again and he had wanted, no... he had _needed_ to see him _smile_ one last time. Because John had already endured too much because of him and he could, at least, give him that: a goodbye without heartache, without cold fingers trying to find a pulse that wasn’t there, even if it was a trick, and knees giving out. He could give him another chance, a better chance at happiness.

And very selfishly he  had wanted to see John smile one last time. He had wanted that smile to be the last thing he would see of John Watson; not ghost touches or words said in front of an empty grave. 

Victor Trevor had been his _first_ love.

John Hamish Watson was the second and last, there would be no one else for him, there could _never_ be, because he had become so much more than that: he had become  his conscience, his life, his heart.

 

*

_On the day of Alex's funeral, she made a vow; it was her second and last vow - she felt it as solemnly as the first._

_She vowed that she would always love him but, above all, that she would never_ stop _: no mercy, no limits, no amount of casualties would stop her._

_*_

_~Now~_

 

Sherlock opened his eyes, he had fallen asleep at some point during the night, obviously. It must have happened during one of the spells of silence that had fallen over John and him during the night, between long stretches of words, his own, mostly.

John was awake, he was in the kitchenette, he could hear him moving about, he could smell coffee brewing and he knew John would be back in the room soon, with coffee and toast, which he would diligently eat before taking his morning pills, and he waited for the panic to claw at him.

It didn't come.

He felt -- well, not _happy_ because he couldn't even sneeze without  risking to tear up his stitches, his dominant hand was still sore, he still had Moriarty's name on his chest, but he felt oddly at peace.

John and he were _lovers_ ; the timing couldn't be more abysmal, _none_ of their problems had been solved, but Sherlock had actually got a few hours of undisturbed, dreamless rest, which had sort of become a rare occurrence for him long before he had followed Herman Bennett two weeks before.

He was _not_ happy, but the scars in his body didn't itch, burn or throb, he didn't feel _unreal_ and John was making coffee and he didn't want to lose _that:_ the quiet, the domesticity, the _almost_ happiness he was experiencing. It was as simple as that, really.

John must have heard him because he got in the room holding two mugs. He looked tired (but no bad dreams, he couldn't see the signs they usually left on his body and eyes) and Sherlock _knew_ that John must have spent part of the night watching him sleep. It took him about a blink of an eye to deduce that and he kept a carefully neutral expression on his face, at first, even though he was surprised realising that he didn't mind. At all.

Once upon a time he might not have appreciated that knowledge, he might have deemed it useless, ridiculous; on that particular morning, however, on the eighth day since Joan Adams' kidnapping and eventual retrieval, he smiled at John, not mentioning that he was privy of the fact that he had watched him sleeping. John smiled in return, waiting patiently for him to sit on the bed (he never even offered to help him unless Sherlock asked him, and he rarely did) only then, when he was more or less comfortable, did John hand him his cup of coffee.

John sat on the bed and the calm, the warmth of that room, of John's silence scared him, for a moment.

He was not superstitious, far from it, he had never believed in foreboding,  but he was experiencing something similar now.

It wasn't even a particularly irrational feeling, he thought, it was a _fact_ that it was only a matter of time before they were dragged into the thick of things again.

It felt, he realised, like the last few days before Moriarty had played his hand at the game: how each second with John had counted, how strategies and plans had been already in motion, on both sides, how he had been surprised that he didn't want to lose the life he had (with John).

The only difference was that they did not know what would happen next: Herman Bennett was useless, he would eventually break, Mycroft would see to that and it didn't upset him in the least that his brother had taken it upon himself to oversee that Mr. Bennett relented (paid). But they were in the dark: Joan Adams' statement had been useless, the cameras found in Herman Bennett had led nowhere and so had the bugs found in his own flat; all items were untraceable and the dead guard's flat had been searched but nothing useful had been found.

"Good morning," John said, breaking the silence in the room and his musings.

The coffee was good, he nodded his greetings, wondering, for a moment, whether he was supposed to do or say something. How did those things work, exactly? His only attempt at a relationship, what it felt like lifetimes before, had been an appalling failure.

"Drake just told me that there aren't paparazzi outside today, they left a couple of hours ago, right before his shift started," John said. He sounded relieved.

_The curtain rises..._

John took the cup from his hand,  it wasn't necessary, but Sherlock didn't comment on that.

John's hair was ruffled, stubble was shadowing his face, but he didn't look exhausted like he had for the past few days, he was also naked under his blue robe.

He was his _lover_ and Sherlock was actually tongue-tied, for a moment (one he would very much regret later).

Foreboding, again. It was not superstition, it was not irrational, he just _knew_ with every fiber of his being that it had started, that the relative calm they had been granted was over.

But first, his mobile phone rang. It was Mary.

 

*

 

She had chosen her outfit carefully; that was the first thing Sherlock noticed about Mary when she entered the flat: she was still wearing that hideous red coat, but the jumper underneath and the trousers had been chosen with extreme care, the clothes were meant to highlight the fact that she was a pregnant lady, but at the same time that she was _not_ frail.

The second thing he noticed was that she looked _happy_ which, considering the circumstances and the fact that they knew about her past, didn't make sense to Sherlock. As always he deduced hundreds of little details about her, but nothing really important.

 Mary had accused him of being slow that night at Leinster Gardens, but Sherlock was wondering, not for the first time, whether she had just known how to deceive him, how to reveal only fragments of her real identity (whichever it was), much like Jim Moriarty had done the first time they had seen each other. The rest had been all on Sherlock: he had overlooked things that even Anderson at his worst would have noticed.

 _Sentiment_. _Human error._

He needed not to make the same mistakes, not now...with so many things at stake.

"I was seriously tempted to ask my protection detail to drive me here. Thank you for the concern, though." She said as a way of greeting them after she lowered herself on a chair.

Sherlock absolutely did not look at John as the man undoubtedly was looking at the woman's belly. Mary was doing her best to let them see how very pregnant she was.

So, that was how she wanted to play? Remind John and him that, despite everything, she still had power over them? Remind _him_ that she was carrying John's child and that it was a reality he would have to accept?

She wasn't wearing her rings, of course - those were in a drawer in John's old room, she was wearing something John has given her, though: a necklace, she kept playing with the pendant, as she waited for one of them to answer her.

"It's only temporary," John said. His voice was even, but he needn't look at Mary to know that, just like him, she was aware that John was angry.

Mary shrugged, "I'm not complaining." She said.

She wasn't, she really wasn't. That was one of the reasons for John's anger and for the way Sherlock was not moving in his chair. She had been informed by John of the threat and she had taken it in stride; it was clear that she was used to operating on a need to know basis.

"How are you, Mary?" Sherlock inquired politely. They had become excellent at  that sort of game since that night in that very room. Doublespeak at its finest.

 _What the hell are you doing here?_ He meant to ask.

"I'm fine, just tired." She said with a smile.

_I'm here because I can. And you can't stop me._

"How are _you_? John, would you mind bringing me some water? I'm parched!"

_"You didn't seriously believe that we were even, did you?"_

"A lot better, thank you for asking," Sherlock replied, nodding at John who, immediately after, got up from his chair  and went to the kitchen.

 _Not for a moment. I'm not_ that _slow!_

Mary nodded, even their facade of civility didn't go that far, it would look disingenuous if she showed more concern for the man who had spent part of the previous night with his hand wrapped around her husband's erected penis.

Whoever she had been before starting her life as Mary Morstan she must have been excellent at her job.

"Here...." John said when he came back, handing a glass of water to the woman.

"What are you doing here?" John asked.

Mary took her time drinking her water, her body language that of a  woman in complete control, calm and _happy_ (but why?)

Sherlock was aware that there were, at least, five different ways she could use that glass to kill them or, at least, inflict damage before agents Drake and Harris could stop her. He knew it the same way he knew that she had had decaffeinated coffee for breakfast and French toasts (something she had never cooked for John), the same way he knew that the baby was kicking her (and it was John's baby, he was sure about that) and in about two minutes she would ask to use the toilet.

"Because whether we want it or not we will always be part of each other's lives unless, of course, you don't want to be part of _our_ daughter's."

That was beneath her, Sherlock thought, and he could clearly see that she was putting on an act, intended for John only. She would know _he_ wasn't fooled because she was showing him all the cracks in the facade. John, though, was another matter. John was not stupid, far from it,  but he wasn't like _them_.

Whether Sherlock decided to be part of that conversation or not Mary would count it as a win anyway.

"Of course, I want to be part of her life!" John hissed. And he really wanted to. They still hadn't broached the subject, not directly, but in an ideal world, John's daughter would become a semi-permanent fixture in their lives.

"Good," Mary said, "I don't want to fight about this: our marriage and the baby, I have nothing to gain. I'm _not_ stupid, John. I know I'm still free and _breathing_ only because of the baby."

All true, all perfectly sound -- but she was _lying_. Sherlock knew that she  was lying the same way he knew that he was breathing in that very moment.

And there was a part of him that was hoping that she had just come there to bargain, to buy her own freedom.

"I don't want to go to jail." She said almost as if she had been reading his mind. And that was another lie. She wasn't scared of that. The worst thing was that Sherlock had no idea about what scared the woman in front of him. A few weeks before he would have said that John was her pressure point, that she was afraid of losing him, but _facts_ were proving him wrong.

"So -- you're here to do what, exactly?" John asked.

John didn't trust her, but he still couldn't read through her.

"Extending an olive branch? Bury the hatchet?" Mary said shrugging. She was lying, she had to be.

"I don't believe you!" John said. He was angry and anger, with Mary, was _never_ a good idea. Irene Adler had been unreadable to him, an enigma, Mary Morstan was more dangerous, though, because although he could deduce her, he wasn't sure he could trust his own deductions.

He would not defend Mary, he would not cover for her again, but he needed to defuse the situation. Mary was looking at him expectantly. She knew John would listen to him, but he couldn't bring himself to lie. Not that time.

"Look, I need to use the loo, why don't you two have a chat and tell me what you think when I get back?" She said briskly.

She hobbled to the bathroom and Sherlock felt he could breathe more easily without her in the room.

"I don't believe her," John said. "She is a liar."

"So am I," Sherlock said, realising he hadn't moved an inch since Mary had entered the flat.

"That's different," John said.

Sherlock looked at him, "Is it?" He enquired. He was genuinely curious. How were things different? Hadn’t he said that he should have married _her_ in that very room once?

John got close to him (and God, yes, he needed _that!),_ he wondered whether the man felt like breathing was easier as well, he wondered whether he would sit on the armrest of the chair or crouch in front of him, but he did neither of those things. He didn’t even touch him, but his words did.

"Because you _had_ to do what you did," John said, and he sounded sincere, there was also a hint of true forgiveness in his voice.

"Do you trust her?" John asked after a moment (but it could have been more, he wasn’t completely sure).

"No." Sherlock said, "but she _is_ the mother of your child. That is a _fact_."

"She shot you," John said.

"I remember," Sherlock replied, more harshly than he had meant to.

 _Time_. They needed more time. William Moore had been assigned to dig into Mary's past. He would accept because Joan needed very expensive surgery for her hands and _that_ would be his payment _._ He would put Joan before everything, even vengeance.

_Pressure points everyone has them._

They  needed time. Just until the baby was born and they had dealt with the people behind Herman Bennett.

"You _died_. She killed you and then embraced me, the day after. How can I forget that?"

_Because she is dangerous and I can't deduce what's in her mind._

"You don't have to. But you have a daughter to think about, she is right: whether you want it or not your lives are linked."

He voluntarily didn't include himself in the scenario. John did instead.

"She didn't say a word about _us._ She shot you because she didn't want to lose me, she threatened you in that house, but now..."

"As I said I'm _not_ stupid," Mary said interrupting John. Sherlock had heard her, he knew she had been listening, he had just been curious to know how long she would wait before letting her presence known.

"Do you want me to pretend that I was surprised? That I didn't see it coming? That I didn't know that it was only a matter of time before you chose him over me for good?"

She moved a step toward him and Sherlock finally recognised the woman he had seen in Magnussen's bedroom. A fragment of truth, at long last.

"Tell me, John, would it make you feel better if I told you that I'm angry? Would it change anything? Should I play the part of the scorned woman?" Mary asked, "Would it be more acceptable?"

"You  shot him." John hissed.

Mary took another step. "I'm aware of that. But you didn't answer my question: how am I supposed to behave in this situation? Which difference would it make? My blood pressure would go through the roof, Sherlock would still be the man who declared his undying devotion and love to you on our wedding day and you'd still be in love with him like you've been since the day I met you. I recognise lost causes when I see them..."

 Again lies within truths. Nothing of what she had just said was false, per se, but Sherlock still thought that she was lying, that she was just giving a convincing performance, for John, mostly.

"Besides," she concluded, "I owe Sherlock."

She was  telling the truth, now, but it didn't make him feel better.

"I want, no -- I think we all want closure. Don't we? Or am I supposed to tell you that I could disappear and you would never see your daughter? I know you, John -" She said, not finishing her sentence. She didn’t need to.

It would destroy John, it would break him. She was smiling, her hands on her belly, her head tilted on a side and Sherlock could tell her that he would hunt her down if she did, that he would use every resource he had, every resource Mycroft had and he would find her, eventually. Mary already knew, though, he could clearly read it on her face, in her eyes.

_You'd be welcome to try. This is a one-time offer. Be smart Sherlock, do it for John._

"Let bygones be bygones and we shall be one happy family. Is that what you are asking?" Sherlock said.

"Exactly! A quiet divorce, shared custody, I'll keep the house, my job, and my freedom. Everybody wins." Mary said and she was again the woman he had first seen in that restaurant, the night he had come back.

"We could have you arrested right here, right now," John said.

Mary seemed to consider his words, her smile grew bolder before she said, "In that case I would cut a deal with Mycroft Holmes," she looked at him and he knew she wasn't bluffing when she said, "Believe me, he would listen. He would be very much interested in what I know."

_Be smart, Sherlock. How would John react if your brother gave me his protection? How would he forgive you if he never saw his daughter because of this?_

"Think it over," Mary said, she took her purse from the armrest of the chair, "I'll ring you tomorrow to let you know about the scan and we'll talk."

She was at the door when she stopped and looking at him said, "What happened to the mirror in the bathroom?"

She knew. Sherlock realised. She had always known. Probably not the exact chain of thoughts that had prompted him to smash his hand against the mirror (he didn't even remember them himself), but she knew how _not_ good things had been for him.

_Fibbing Sherlock. I'm not John, I can tell when you're fibbing._

"An experiment," John said evenly.

Mary tilted her hands up, "I don't want to know." She said with a little smirk. But she was looking at his right hand: it wasn't as bad as it had been the week before, but there were still some stitches, it was still sore, it was  still a weakness Mary was very much aware of.

"I'd better go." She said. She didn't bat an eye when Drake and Harris opened the door and Drake escorted her downstairs. Sherlock tilted a hand up, halting John before he could say anything.

The day before he had suggested William Moore's name mostly to keep him away from them, because given the choice whether to help them or Joan he would understandably choose the latter. Now he needed Moore to show whether he had indeed been as good as his brother had claimed he was.

He needed to know who Mary really was.

 

*

William Moore couldn’t know that only a couple of months before that day, Sherlock had sat in the same seat he was occupying in that private jet; he had no idea that Sherlock had been sent to a suicide mission in Eastern Europe and that his exile had been revoked only because of Moriarty’s video message.

As most British citizens he had seen the video, unlike others, though, he had made a few phone calls to old friends to ask what in the bloody hell was going on, because the knowledge that someone could hack into every server and do whatever the hell they wanted was terrifying. Joan had been at the hospital that day, she had not seen the message while it aired, she had been in surgery – but she had called him the minute she had seen it.

William Moore didn’t know Jim Moriarty, he had been stationed in New Zealand at the time he had played his games with Sherlock Holmes. And shortly after that, he had met Joan and left his job, for her – for their future.

He had never met Jim Moriarty, but the people who had planned Joan’s kidnapping and the games with Sherlock Holmes claimed he was still alive. Mycroft Holmes, in person, had assured him that Jim Moriarty was dead and he believed him. He had no reasons to believe otherwise.

He had not expected that particular assignment, he would have objected to it hadn’t it been for the money and the assurance that Joan would be safe.

Pressure points, weaknesses to be exploited, everyone had them: he had Joan, for whom he would die, kill and go back to a job he had hated toward the end. Sherlock Holmes had his doctor, whose wife’s past he had to uncover and do it as soon as humanly possible, Mycroft Holmes had…his brother, apparently and the fact that he had allowed him, a former operative whom he had never met before, to understand that only told William that things were a lot more complicated than he knew.

He would do what he had been asked to. He would play the game, contact old friends, collect a few favors. Mycroft Holmes had told him, during their brief meeting, that official and some unofficial channels had failed so far.

“No one can be _that_ good at disappearing, Mr. Moore.” Mycroft had said.

American intelligence had not been particularly forthcoming, but William had still acquaintances who owed him favors, the sort of favors that one could not just swipe under the rug. Somehow both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes knew about that and they were exploiting his past.

“Do you think it’s connected to what happened to Joan?” He had asked, more because he was still trying to rationalise how his life had become such a nightmare for the past eight days than because he actually expected an answer from Mycroft Holmes.

“How long have you been an operative, Mr. Moore?” Mycroft had asked, he had smiled and said, “During that time, how many genuine coincidences have you come across?”

Not many. That had been his answer.

So he had a stack of files to read -  the fascinating tale of John Watson and Mary Morstan’s whirlwind romance, her movements for the past twenty-four months, every scrap of information that had been collected about her.

He had a text from Sherlock Holmes  with a name, a telephone number and the assurance that the person he would contact owed him their life and had ways of finding out things that might be useful.

His first stop was to Langley, Virginia, though,  to visit a few old friends. 

 

*

At one p.m. of that same day Janine Hawkins left work for her lunch break. It was her last week before she moved to Sussex.  She would never return. Her body was found hours later, thanks to an anonymous tip to the police. She was found in an abandoned warehouse, bound to a chair, a single bullet to the stomach, a black box on her legs addressed to Sherlock and a writing on the wall behind her in red paint: _one_ _down_.

They couldn't open the box, they would need a code, but in Janine's mouth, they found a note, for Sherlock.

Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had briefly met Janine at John's wedding, closed his eyes upon reading the content of the message for Sherlock.

He sent two texts: one to Mycroft Holmes and the other to Sherlock.

It had started again.


	15. Chapter 15 ~ The Black Box and The Ladies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could only look at John who smiled and said, “Why did you cure my limp?”
> 
> He could lie. He should. He could tell John that he had needed an assistant or that a limp soldier would have been useless to him. He could tell John that he had cured his limp because he was bored, he could tell John that he had cured his limp because he could do that, he had known it would be child’s play because he had got the moment he had seen John what the man had needed.
> 
> “You didn’t think I was a freak.” Sherlock heard himself say in a low voice, “you didn’t tell me to piss off.”
> 
> In the end, that was the true reason, wasn’t it? He had cured John’s limp (and John should stop thinking it had been a miracle. He should stop thinking he was a miracle worker. He wasn’t.) because John had been – John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me forever to write this chapter. Real life was crazy - and I wasn't exactly thrilled with how the chapter was turning out. I am still not, but at least I finished writing it. :)  
> Updates should be more frequent now that school is off (yay!)  
> Further notes at the end of the chapter (which is long as hell, but I didn't want to break it in two chapters)  
> Read the tags.  
> To all the people who left kudos, read the story and left comments: I can't thank you enough for your support. Sorry for the long wait. This chapter is for you:)

 

 

The first time Sherlock Holmes had appeared on one of his crime scenes Greg Lestrade hadn’t known what to make of that young, posh kid. To be precise Sherlock hadn’t _appeared_ on the scene; oh, no – he had breezed in: tall, lean, pale, a mop of dark curls that had made him look even younger than he had been at the time, a cigarette dangling between his long fingers, high as a bloody kite and impossibly arrogant.

Within five minutes he had made a young constable cry, two men had almost come to fists because of his deductions  and he had solved a string of murders that had driven him almost mad for weeks.

Greg had been amazed, shocked, furious – and he had also worried about the kid who apparently had had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever and didn’t care one toss about what his words did to people.

The man who arrived at the warehouse where Janine’s body had been dumped  was still too pale, still had a dark mop of curls, he was still dressed sharply: black suit, grey shirt, a blue scarf tied around his neck, but he was _not_ that kid he had had to threaten, more than once, to ban permanently from any crime scene in London if he didn’t get clean.

Sherlock was clean, now. Even at the hospital he had stubbornly refused painkillers, which had been crazy to Greg: he had _seen_  the wounds on Sherlock’s body before they were even stitched and there was no way they hadn’t hurt. There was no way he hadn’t been in a world of pain and yet he had driven John mad refusing to take anything stronger than paracetamol.

The kid Sherlock had been when they had met would not have tolerated his older brother’s overbearing presence, Sherlock was barely paying any attention to the two men who had become his shadow for the past ten days, Mycroft’s men. He had only ditched them when he had had to save Joan Adams … and protect John.

John Watson was walking right beside Sherlock, giving him enough room to move, to look around, to examine the scene, but making his presence impossible to ignore. Sherlock was not breezing through the room, though, his movements were not as fluid as usual and Greg had to remind himself that it was to be expected, that he didn’t have to make too much out of it.

“Where is she?” John asked.

"Follow me,” Greg said.

And for some reason he couldn't help thinking about the first time John had been to a crime scene with Sherlock; it felt like a lifetime had gone by since he had allowed him to examine Jennifer Wilson's body.

 

 _"I said he's with_ me!"

 

And while they got inside the boiler room (the crime scene) and he looked at Sherlock taking in every detail of it, his mind went back to the last two times they had been to a crime scene together: Sherlock had been in the basement where he had been tortured, deducting in a matter of seconds where the hidden cameras were - but he also recalled Sherlock with Joan Adams - the way he had been with her - how he had tried, in his own way, to offer comfort to the bleeding, hurt woman.

She had been wearing Sherlock's coat and he had been right next to her, even if he had been hurt as well (that much he found out later) and had just killed people - not officially, not as far as the British government was concerned, but honestly, at that point, he wasn't even sure he cared.

Thankfully, though, the bruises on his face and neck had faded so unless one knew it would be nearly impossible to tell what Sherlock had been through.

Greg had been tempted to bypass Sherlock entirely and only deal with Mycroft Holmes after he had read the note found stuffed in Janine’s mouth.

The thing was that Greg hated what was going on, he hated that innocent people, people he had known, in Janine’s case, were getting killed in order to play a game.

He hated that every time those people, whoever the hell they were, started to play his friends got hurt, in one way or another.

Jim Moriarty had taken perfect strangers and used them as ticking bombs to play his crazy games with Sherlock, but the people behind those murders and kidnappings didn’t want to challenge Sherlock, they didn’t want to engage in wicked mind games to see how clever they were – or how good Sherlock was at solving their puzzles.

No. They wanted to _hurt_ Sherlock. It didn’t take a genius to get that.

To say that Sherlock had anticipated all of that: he had told him, right after they had rescued Joan Adams, that the game would become more _personal,_ and Greg had wondered just how more personal it could get: wasn’t torturing and abusing Sherlock personal enough for those psychopaths? Apparently not.

Sherlock had been right, as usual; Greg hated that Sherlock had had to come to that crime scene because in the end, ignoring his gut instinct (or was it _sentiment,_ as Sherlock would argue?), he had indeed called Sherlock because he had known that those bastards would have found other ways, even more personal or painful for both the victims and the consulting detective to draw him out or some innocent sod might end up with their eyelids peeled off and it might also be broadcasted on every screen of the country, like they had threatened to do with Joan Adams; that, after all, had been just one of the _incentives_ to make Sherlock play the last time.

Sherlock’s reply had almost been what he had expected from him: he had asked not to touch anything, not to contaminate the integrity of the scene.

What had been different was that he had added a please after he had asked him to keep only the least irritating officers on the scene. That word, that _please_ , coming from Sherlock, after – everything that had happened for the past few weeks had been upsetting.

What was worse, though, was that Sherlock had not asked for pictures of the small metal box found on Janine’s legs: it wasn’t much bigger than a shoebox, it was a small, black strong case with a digital pad on it. Sherlock had not even reacted to that, nor had he asked about the contents of the note after being informed of its existence.

Greg noticed that Sherlock still hadn’t properly looked at Janine’s body.

Of course, Janine had been his _girlfriend_ , but no one with half a brain cell working had believed a word she had said to tabloids or on tv.

The people who knew Sherlock: friends and enemies alike  knew who really mattered to the consulting detective; he suspected that Jim Moriarty had seen it even before Sherlock realised just how important John Watson had become to him.

So, why kill Janine? Why the choreography? Why shooting her to stomach?

He exchanged a glance with agents Drake and Harris who nodded their greetings. He hadn’t seen the two men since the day after Joan Adams had been rescued, when he had gone to Baker Street to wrap up some paperwork, but they were in constant touch, they were good men, even if Harris looked like Jason Statham's long lost twin and Drake like he had fought (and won) a couple of wars.

 He wondered whether Sherlock knew how deep the protection detail for John and him ran. Mycroft Holmes was thorough and was making everything in his power to ensure that there could never be another fuck up like the one that had happened the day Sherlock had offered himself up as a hostage taking Alyce’s place.

The truth was that Greg was sick and so very tired of warehouses, of tortured bodies, of having to deal with the bomb disposal experts, of seeing them getting into civilians' flats and free men from semtex vests - or making sure that a black box,  found on a dead woman's legs was _not_ a bomb.

"How reassuring!" He had said, when he had been told that the black box was not, in fact, a bomb; it had taken him a moment to remember that Sherlock had said the exact same thing once, in a similar circumstance. He couldn't say he blamed Sherlock.

He was tired of having macabre notes to deliver to Sherlock – of crime scene pictures, of scars on his friends’ bodies.

It had become too personal – and he knew that he was about to face God knew how  many hours of rushes against time, of hurt and lies and fear – and he had the sinking feeling that he would have to bid goodbye even to the little sleep he was getting lately.

Sherlock wasn’t talking, there wasn’t an incessant flow of deductions that usually accompanied his presence on crime scenes.  He was focusing on Janine, now, but he wasn’t touching her.

The kid he had first met on a murder scene couldn’t stop touching, smelling, tasting his surroundings, not caring about protocol, common sense or decency.

The man in front of him  was keeping his hands in the pockets of his coat, not a hint of feelings on his face.

And Greg couldn’t say that he cared at the moment whether Sherlock was feeling any empathy or grief for Janine’s death. He was past the point of caring. He wanted those people to stop using London as their personal hunting ground for what it looked more and more like a personal vendetta against Sherlock.

He wanted those people to be put down before it got even more personal for all of them – and there was only one man who could do that: Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," John said. It was a question, but it was also a warning, a plea not to be bloody stupid, not to go and disappear like the last time, because those twelve hours had been excruciatingly long for all of them and Greg had seen how John had felt each and every one of them – and if even _he_ could hear that much in John’s voice, so must Sherlock, who, in fact, stopped what he was doing and said, "She was killed here. Look at the blood: it's everywhere."

That was _not_ what he had expected! Sherlock hated to point out what “normal people” (or idiots, when he was less kind) could easily infer, what even the greenest forensics team members could establish right away. He had expected Sherlock to give him more details, but on second thought perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised, considering who the victim was.

He still wasn’t touching the dead woman’s body and he still hadn’t asked both about the box and the note.

It had taken Sherlock just a few seconds while they had been in Herman Bennett’s basement to spot the precise location of the hidden cameras. He wasn’t divulging any information, now.  Greg looked at John,  he still looked ready to move, to fight – but there was something else…a look of devotion in his eyes, while he kept looking at Sherlock angling his body toward the other man’s, totally oblivious of his surroundings, spoke volumes about those _things_ that were none of his business.

 Part of him was relieved, though – if Sherlock and John had  found some happiness  amidst all the pain and horror that had  swept them on their feet for the past few weeks – that was _good_.

He was also worried, though, because the people behind those murders wanted Sherlock to suffer – and the last time someone had threatened John Watson, Sherlock had faked his suicide and had come back, two years later, a changed man: still a force to be reckoned with, but different, less of an arrogant dick to his team, but more dangerous.

And still with no self-preservation instinct. Which was what he was truly scared of.

Sherlock still hadn’t asked about the note and Greg was wondering why.

 “That’s all?” Greg said aloud.

Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes in annoyance at his question, and he was not a genius, but he had known Sherlock long enough to understand that it was just that: a show.

 Sherlock focused on Janine's face for a moment and Greg saw him open his mouth as if to say something and then close it, clearly deciding against it at the last second.

"What?" Greg asked.

Sherlock fixed him with his gaze and there was something sharp, almost cruel in his eyes when he hissed, "It doesn't matter!"

He should trust Sherlock – and he did. He had trusted the pale kid who kept showing up at his crime scenes, high on cocaine, but still amazingly brilliant and he trusted implicitly the man in front of him, who had spent two years away, taking down, on his own, a criminal empire and was still impossibly brilliant. He was a great man – and somehow, without him even really noticing he had also become a good one.

After a decade  spent watching Sherlock solve seemingly impossible crimes, he should know better than asking questions when he was like that: too calm and silent, when his stance and voice and eyes all but screamed, "back off!", but he was a copper: it was his _job_ to ask questions. Especially on those moments, when he knew that Sherlock _could_ give him answers.

He was a copper and he knew Sherlock, he knew that he would withhold useful information if it suited him – and there was too much at stake, and he would be damned before he let Sherlock disappear on him again, whether willingly or otherwise!

"Are you sure?" Greg asked.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance at his words, but that too was a show -- because it was clear, even to him,  that Sherlock didn’t particularly want to divulge what he had deduced so far.

 "Look at her face, Lestrade! Can't you even infer that much? She begged for her life; look at the armrests of the chair and the duct tape: she scraped the wood with her fingernails. She fought..." He paused, changing position (and subject), angling himself the way Janine was sitting, "The killers were there and watched her die."

“Killers?” Greg asked.

“Yes. Two of them, obviously.” Sherlock said.

Sherlock still wasn't touching Janine, Greg still couldn't see a hint of grief for the woman's death, but he wasn't surprised. He had expected that reaction from Sherlock. That didn’t mean that, in his own way, Sherlock didn’t care about what had happened to the woman.

 "Send the body to Molly!” Sherlock said after a moment of silence.

"Is that it?" Lestrade asked.

"Is that _what_?" Sherlock countered.

He got close to him, invading his space and said, "Oh, I can tell you a lot of things, Lestrade! I can tell you that there were two men here who watched her die, that they chose to shoot her to the stomach because it would be more _painful_ for her. I can tell you that one of the men who was here smoked two Marlboros while waiting for her to die, but you won't find any cigarettes' butts here or any bullets' casings, they are professionals! They cleaned up the scene as best as they could before leaving. I can also tell you that you won't find any prints on the box, except possibly Janine's."

He drew in a breath and added, "The writing on the wall,"

"Yes, what does it mean?" Greg asked.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and said, "That is Janine's handwriting."

She had been his girlfriend of course, he would recognise her handwriting and he noticed the almost imperceptible hitch in Sherlock's voice as he had said Janine's name _that_ time. He had not believed a word she had said in her interviews and not only because the only people Greg had ever seen Sherlock give two tosses about were John and Mrs. Hudson but because her claims had been simply outrageous. And yet Sherlock was there.

"You might find the two men physically responsible for her murder, even your incompetent forensic team might scrape up some DNA samples from the duct tape used to bind her and some pollen and dirt from the pavement, but the people behind them will still be at large. They are pawns, like Herman Bennett and the four men who kidnapped Joan Adams were. May I see the note, now?" Sherlock asked.

Sherlock’s tone had been matter-of-fact, and Greg hated that he knew that Sherlock was right. John moved, getting closer to them hearing those words. If he had looked ready to set into action when he had entered the warehouse, he looked livid with fury, now.  

"Of course," Greg said, handing him the sheet of paper already bagged as evidence. He was relieved not to have it in the pocket of his coat any longer.

"You will want to take a look at the box as well, I assume," Greg said.

Sherlock just sighed at his words, as he was already starting to examine the sheet of paper.

Greg gestured at one of the few officers who was still on the scene (wondering, as it had become habitual, whether he could be trusted, deciding to gloss over the fact that he didn't know. He wasn't sure he could trust anyone at that point.) to bring the box to them.

 John was exactly two steps behind Sherlock, while the consulting detective took his time examining the sheet of paper: he didn't read the note right away, he smelled it first, looked at it, examining it under the light of one of the large windows in the room, letting out an annoyed snort when Harris moved to stand next to him (and to be honest Lestrade was tempted to do the same).

He saw it the moment Sherlock actually _read_ the note, the moment the words actually sunk in. He saw the way he blinked his eyes, the way he clenched his jaws and remembered the conversation he had had with John at the hospital, on the stairs between floors, after Sherlock's surgery.

He hadn't lied to John then; he had never really thought Sherlock Holmes was a sociopath. He truly wouldn't have him allowed on a crime scene if he had seriously thought he was a psychopath and not just a junkie with a big brain and a perchance to solve crimes.

He knew that Sherlock could be a dangerous man, though. He had always known. 

He had never seen him _truly_ angry -- but he had a pretty good idea of what he was capable of. Or, at least, he had thought he did until that day.

He was afraid he was about to find out just how _dangerous_ Sherlock Holmes could really be.

"No," Sherlock said and his voice was pure ice.

John looked at him, confusion clear on his face. He didn’t know because Sherlock had not wanted to know about the note in advance. He had not asked, even after he had told him about the note and where it had been found.

Sherlock spared a glance at the black box that the officer was still carrying in his hands and said, "Destroy it. I don't care!"

That was _not_ unexpected. Mycroft Holmes had warned him that Sherlock would say that. But it didn't exactly take a genius to anticipate his reaction, that time.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't fight John to let him see the slip of paper, he didn't look at John though, he focused on Janine, on the pool of blood at her feet, on her white shirt and blue skirt soaked with blood, on her unseeing eyes and on her face smudged with dried mascara and flickers of blood.

"Sherlock...." John said hesitantly, the slip of paper still in his hands.

"I don't _care!"_ Sherlock repeated and he truly didn't. That wasn’t a façade, he wasn’t bluffing.

And part of him couldn't blame him. He had gone and talked to the man who had tortured and abused him for hours a little more than a week before. He had not objected to that.

Greg had been allowed to see the tape of that conversation and while on one hand he admired Sherlock, more than he thought possible, on the other hand, he was glad he hadn't been there that day; the temptation of wiping that _filthy_ smirk from Bennett's face, bare handed, would have been hard to resist if he had.

Sherlock had not shown any hint of discomfort with the man who had spent hours finding ways to hurt him, but he was also the same man who had asked him, _before_ , at the hospital, that same day, not to let John anywhere near Herman Bennett and before that he had asked him not to let John _know_ the things that were in his official statement, the things that Greg could still hear sometimes, in Sherlock's deep voice, in a chilling matter of fact tone, the things his _friend_ had told him and that were still haunting Greg, because deep down, even if no one had blamed him for the fuck up with Herman Bennett, he still felt like he was the one at fault.

But the fact of the matter was very simple, now: Sherlock would see all of London _burn_ before he let John Watson be in the same room with Herman Bennett.

And that was the request in the note: Herman Bennett knew the code to unlock the box and would only disclose it to John. That was the message that had been crammed down Janine's throat.

"Greg," John said, "can you give us a minute?"

"I don't need a minute, John! The answer is no!" Sherlock snapped.

And Greg saw; he saw that John was about to tell Sherlock that it was not up to him to decide for him, he was about to remind him that someone they had known had been killed and that Janine was just the first of many, probably. John didn't say any of that, though.

"A minute," John repeated, without looking at him, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. And Sherlock didn’t object.

Greg nodded, gesturing the officer to follow him right outside the door, knowing that Harris and Drake weren't going anywhere.

He had expected Mycroft to be there, to join them, because unlike Sherlock he had asked about the content of the note and perhaps Mycroft Holmes wasn't there because he was already working on making sure that John would not have to see that _animal_. At least he hoped he was.

Mycroft Holmes had assured him that Herman Bennett would talk the night they had recovered Sherlock from that basement and so far he had kept his promise: Bennett had given them details about his known victims and the identity and burial sites of a couple of the unknown ones.

He still insisted that he was doing Moriarty's bidding, though.

Which was complete and utter bollocks because James Moriarty was _dead!_ He had seen the body himself, he had been there, on that rooftop, _after,_ he had seen blood and fragments of skull and brain matter on the pavement (and it had been better than focusing on the pool of blood that had marked the point where Sherlock had fallen, or think about John Watson sitting still and silent on a chair as he waited to give his statement somewhere at the Yard).

That didn't seem to matter to Bennett. He wasn't relenting. He truly believed in his words.

The problem was that Herman Bennett couldn't just disappear or have some tragic accident while in prison; there would be a trial, there were victims’ relatives and loved ones who wanted justice, who wanted answers.

There were lawyers, Bennett’s, who were giving interviews left and right and the press had morbidly latched onto those crimes and onto the serial killer.

Not surprisingly, Kitty Riley had been one of the journalists who had latched on that story and on those crimes like white on rice, wisely neglecting to mention Sherlock in her articles, except that in passing.

He chose not to hear what Sherlock and John were saying, although it would be impossible anyway since they were whispering, except for John's hissed, "It's someone we know this time!" and Sherlock's cold reply at those words, "High functioning sociopath, remember?"

And their reaction to Sherlock's words would have been almost funny: John rolled his eyes, Drake and Harris exchanged a knowing glance and he snorted.

There wasn't anything funny, though. Janine was still in the room, still dead and there were still a black box, a note and a writing on the wall with a promise of more to come (one down.... how many still to go?) –  and those people were good, the only thing he was sure about was that whatever was going on, whatever master plan those people had was _not_ improvised.

"I won't play," Sherlock said suddenly, stepping away from John. He looked around in the room and said again, louder, that time, "I am _not_ playing!"

 _Right_. He hadn't even considered that the place might be bugged, that they might be watching them, listening to them. Sherlock had, of course. He had probably known the second he had entered the room. Sherlock probably knew where the bugs or cameras had been placed in the room. He had neglected to mention it to him and he could see why, now. Had he already known?

He was Sherlock. Of course, he had known.

"You said I ought to change the way I played the game -- that it's exactly what I am doing!" Sherlock said. He hadn't looked at John, but he was clearly talking to him.

"This is not what I meant --"  John replied.

It was clear that it must be an ongoing argument between the two men, at least judging by their reactions: Sherlock's annoyance and John's frustration.

"It hardly matters since I am _not_ going to play!" Sherlock said between clenched teeth.

And part of him: the man, the friend, couldn't honestly blame Sherlock for his decision -- because he truly would let other people die, rather than playing that hand of the game.

Before he could say anything, though, the whistling coming from the box started. He would find out very soon, in a matter of minutes, that the box had opened on its own. With an incentive to play.

And that time, it would be _personal_ for him as well.

 

*

 

 

Janine had been ready to move to her cottage in Sussex Downs the last time he had heard from her, by text, about a week before. She had been happy, hinting about a new boyfriend.

 

_"Who isn't a manipulative bastard, for a change!"_

She had texted him a series of emoticons before adding, " _and he isn't in love with his best friend either!!_ "

Janine had been genuinely worried about him, though; she had asked when she could visit him at Baker Street. He realised that he had never replied to that last text. He had deleted it without answering.   

Janine was dead. Sherlock had seen her body, he had deduced exactly what had happened to her, down to how long her agony had lasted -- and he didn't care. Not at the moment.

It wasn't numbness. Not exactly. Sherlock was aware of everything: colours, noises and smells even more acutely than usual.

There was Janine's body still in the room (she had been happy, it had been her last week in town, she had had plans for the evening), the pool of blood at her feet was starting to congeal, rigor mortis had set in.

There were people in the room: too many, and there was too much noise, too much information surrounding him that was risking clogging up useful space in his mind.

There was a note, a sheet of paper dirty with Janine's blood and bile, with printed words on it, with yet another ultimatum, another request.

There were bugs in that old boiler room, but removing them, trying to trace them would be an exercise in futility.

They had predicted he would refuse to play that time; they had anticipated his reaction; therefore, they had upped the stakes. He heard Lestrade’s mobile ringing, the pauses and worry in his voice after he answered. His own mobile had vibrated as well, but he hadn’t paid attention to it. Perhaps he should have, he thought idly.

 

  _“Then why am I smiling?” Magnussen asked. Sherlock didn’t remember ever hating another human being as much as he hated that man._

 _The way he spoke, the way he stained everything, everyone (John, Mycroft) with his mere existence physically turned his stomach; and the way he talked about him, as if he already owned him it made him feel dirty, it made him feel like in that room in Chicago with the yellow wallpaper peeling off the walls, or like that room in Istanbul where his skin had burned and stung so much that he had irrationality feared they had poured acid on him. Magnussen was that and more. It was the idea of a future as a slave, as an object. That would_ not _happen!_

_He had to focus, concentrate!_

_Magnussen was smiling. Magnussen had expected his move and Mycroft had warned him because as much as he hated to admit it his brother was always three (or dozens) steps ahead of his opponents. There was a contingency plan. He ought to focus on that._

_“Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves – and everything he holds dear.”_

_Yes. Of course. He was right. He was starting to see it now._

 

Janine was dead because she had known him (they could have been _friends._ ), she had fancied him and he had exploited that fact. She had been murdered because loneliness and silence and a John-less flat had been too thick, too deafening and too harsh to bear.

And Janine had been _convenient,_ she had been a means to an end, and he had been selfish, he had been a manipulative bastard and he hadn't cared that she had lied to every tabloid and talk show in the Country about their relationship. That, too, had been convenient, for many a reason.

"Sherlock," John said bringing him back to the present, “I think you need to see this."

Yes. Of course. There would be the incentives, the things that supposedly would make him dance to their tune.

 

_John. His unborn child. Mycroft._

_Magnussen and Mycroft were both extremely good at that kind of game. He could be as well when he didn’t care. Plan B would have to be a go._

_Mycroft had anticipated every course of action. Every possible scenario, they had worked on that moment for months, it had been again like when they had worked together to bring Moriarty down; it had been a constant stream of deductions, of Intel, of planning. It has been almost fun._

_Plan B._

_Lazarus had been one of the possible outcomes of his final meeting with Moriarty. He had heard John’s voice and, for a moment, he had had doubts. He hadn’t wanted to leave, even though he had not known what it would do to John, what it would do to him._

_What it would really mean._

_Plan B was like Lazarus. He realised suddenly._

 

They had killed Janine only to draw him out, to see if he would come. It was so clear, now. She had been bait. She had been _convenient_ for those people too.

He ought to move, to see what was inside the black box, but for a moment, he couldn't move a single muscle.

It was not numbness. He could feel his own body; he could feel John close by.

"Yes," He said. He could hear his own voice; feel his lungs, his vocal chords, and his tongue.

Even if he hadn’t known that the black box was not a bomb, it would have still been utterly ridiculous the way they had all scuttled by upon hearing that noise.  How could they not _see?_ That was not the sort of game they were playing. Oh, he knew that their endgame was to have him dead, but that would only come in the end.

No, they _were_ seeing, he realised looking at Lestrade. Lestrade was getting it, now. Lestrade, his mind uselessly supplied, clearly needed sleep, clearly wasn’t eating enough and he was worried. The worry had ceased to be for him, though.

_Sentiment._

 

He took the few steps that separated him from the man, fighting the impulse to snap at John for standing too close to him. John who had been willing to talk to Herman Bennett (breathe his same air, _smell_ that putrid odor) because Janine was dead.

 And Sherlock wanted very much to drive him away, to manipulate him, to have him handcuffed and brought to safety by agents Drake and Harris.

He did nothing.

_Plan B. was sensible. Plan B would get them what they wanted (bring Charles Augustus Magnussen down, bring Mary down), but – it would be like Lazarus all over again._

_He hated how happy, how safe Magnussen felt. He hated that he should have used another tactic, one where John wouldn’t be risking everything, but he couldn’t not know, he had to see, it had been paramount that he was there, with him._

_It was one of the worst lies he had ever said in his life._

_His only mistake was that he had brought John with him. Mycroft had told him not to._

_He hadn’t  listened. Hubris had blinded him, again._

 

“It was Molly,” Lestrade said. Three words and each of it made things clearer for Sherlock. Three words and Sherlock got just how personal things had suddenly  become for Detective Inspector Lestrade.

And part of him wanted to say that he didn’t care. Part of him wanted to leave that warehouse, turn his back at the game, bring John with him and just _live_. He couldn’t, though, not really, because there was something inside that box that he had to see because Molly Hooper, who had people protecting her, had called and Lestrade was _worried_. Lestrade who had physically unchained him in that basement, looking at him from the neck up, shielding him from the other people’s stares with his own body and authority.

Lestrade, who had been the first person in a very long time who had hugged him, the night he had come back and revealed that he was alive.

“I think you need to see what’s inside the box, Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

Oh, he _knew_ what was inside that box; his senses were working just fine! He had smelled the stale water (not as bad as in Herman Bennett's basement, but it reminded him of Serbia, for some reason) and the very beginning of decomposition. _Human_ decomposition.

 

_“Sherlock, do we have a plan?” John asked before he followed Magnussen outside._

_Oh, yes. They did. They had a carefully designed plan, it would only rip John’s life apart, again._

_No. He had been beaten. Magnussen was right:  he had made a mistake, a terrible mistake; therefore, he would need to fix it._

 

The _smell_ coming from the box, the unmistakable scent of dead flesh had made it impossible for him to do anything else. Sherlock moved, closing the distance with the opened box that had been placed on an old, rust-eaten chair in the boiler -room with two rapid steps.

Nestled among half melted ice cubes there was a human thumb.

A human male thumb. The left one.

Sherlock blinked his eyes, again.

 

_He knew what he had to do. It was logical, it was what – he had done while John believed he had killed himself._

_Plan B might be logical, all of Mycroft's plans were, but it was_ not _feasible: the collateral damage would be disastrous (for John), besides – it was nothing he had not done before._

The game they were playing became suddenly very clear and _painful_ in ways he had not expected.

The thumb had not been cut post mortem. At least, there was that. If the shock of the amputation hadn't killed _him_. But no, he reasoned, they had probably anesthetized _him_. No use risking to lose their leverage right away.

And _he_ still worried his cuticles; he still kept his nails short, apparently. He wouldn't be able to tell how long it had been since the thumb had been sewn off from _his_ hand until he performed tests, but he had been alive when it happened. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

"Sherlock...." He heard John say.

Wrapped in a plastic bag there was also a black and white picture of Molly Hooper, taken outside Bart's, her protection detail right behind her.

"Molly wants ..." Greg trailed.

“I heard you the first time, Lestrade!” Sherlock snapped.

“She said there’s a video!” Greg said, “They sent her the video of –“

Oh, yes. Of course, they had. The curtain had finally risen and they were starting to show their hands.

 

*

 

 

It had all happened very quickly: the whistle coming from the black box, hadn’t even been a particularly shrill sound, nevertheless they had all moved as one: Drake and Harris bringing Sherlock and John outside the room, as he followed them.

His mobile phone had chosen that moment to start ringing, right while they had been getting outside. If those people had wanted them dead they would’ve had no troubles, as they had been exposed, they had been easy targets (and why, _why_ hadn't he thought about that before?); Greg had thought  about the fact that even if there wasn’t a bomb inside the black box, it didn’t mean that they couldn’t have chosen other ways to hurt them, had they truly wished to do so. Somehow Greg doubted that was their immediate goal, though.

Sherlock himself had looked unimpressed with was going on, he had  clearly heard him say, "You are overreacting."

The mobile phone had kept ringing. And Greg had felt the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes -- and what was worse was that although he has seen Jim Moriarty's body, although he had personally escorted said body to the morgue (ignoring the black body bag containing what he had thought to be Sherlock's body) and made sure, even before Mycroft's people arrived, that no one could touch it, for a moment he had actually wondered whether Jim Moriarty was truly dead.

What if that madman was behind all the crap that had gone down for the past few weeks? After all, he had seen the video (who hadn't?) and as far as he knew, all the investigations about it had gone nowhere. 

He had decided to answer the phone since it hadn't stopped ringing, more to try and rationalise his own thoughts than to really know what was so urgent. Besides, he had had a sinking feeling about what it might be about.

He had expected news of another murder, of another body, with another message to Sherlock.

What he had not expected to hear, what made that game suddenly _personal_ to him as well, was hearing Molly Hooper's voice over the phone.

"There is something you need to see." She said. And she sounded scared. And Greg definitely didn't like _that._

 “Someone sent me a video.” Molly continued. And she sounded shaken, and Greg knew that Molly Hooper was not the kind of woman who scared easily. She dealt with death, with murders, with the handiwork of the people he put behind bars for a living and as long as he had known her, he had never heard that tone in her voice.

 Greg had looked at Sherlock, not caring for a moment that the younger man had visibly paled, that he had seemed lost in his own head (mind palace or whatever it was).

He would not stand by and watch Molly be used as a chess piece to make Sherlock play. He would not _grieve_ for Molly Hooper because those people had decided that she was expendable. Or Sherlock did.

 

* 

 

There was also a note in the box, Sherlock read it aloud, tempted to shout at everyone to just back off and let him _breathe._

“You know where to find me to find him.” He said.

     "Find whom?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him for a moment and said to Lestrade, "Is Molly all right?"

"Yeah. Bit shaken, though." Greg said with a grimace. There was anger as well in his voice, now. And he could relate to that. _God_ , they were already playing the game, weren’t they?

"Let's bring Janine's body to Bart's," Sherlock said.

"Video of whom?" John asked again, "Whose thumb is that?"

"Victor Trevor. That is his thumb." Sherlock said. And he realised that he had not said that name aloud for over a decade. He truly hadn't thought, _really_ thought about Victor for years. The day before he had stopped Mycroft before he could even say that name, out of habit, but he had realised that it had truly been ancient history for him. It had been perhaps the only good thing that had come out from his daily meeting with his older brother. 

But  he wished, God, he wished that he didn't _care_. He wished he had turned his back and left like he had wanted to do just a few moments earlier. He wished he could still do that, instead, he was frozen in place, staring at the sewn off thumb of someone he had _loved_ once: clumsily, making mistakes, driving him away in the end, but he had cared about that man.

John didn't talk, didn't need to ask questions, not verbally, he could read the inquisitive look in his eyes clearly when he finally turned and looked at him.

He saw that John wanted to ask him how he could be so sure, but decided against it. John _knew_ him. John was connecting the dots very quickly.

"He –  we were _close_. A long time ago." Sherlock said, “Do you _still_ want to see Herman Bennett?"

"Did...was he important to you?" John asked, and here he was, walking again on eggshells around him. For different reasons.

A fake girlfriend  had been murdered, a friend had been threatened, but Victor –  they had sewn his thumb off. They hadn’t killed him, not yet.

Threatening Molly also made it clear that none of his _friends (_ and John) were safe.

Had Victor been important? 

"Yes." He replied eventually. It was the truth. Lies had details, but the truth seldom required more words from him.

"Then yes, I still want to talk him." John, the _soldier_ (his lover, the one person he could _not_ lose), said.

Sherlock shook his head. He wanted; no he _needed_ to be the one to make Herman Bennett _talk_. Because he could. He could make him _bleed,_ he could make him regret that he had ever thought he could have _any_ power over him, that he could dare to talk to John, he could _finally_ disabuse him from the delusion that he could get more than a couple of orgasms from their time together in the basement. He could send a message to the people behind him that the people he loved were _not_ to be touched.

"No,"  Sherlock said.

John looked surprised, there was also hurt in his eyes (why?) and Sherlock really didn't want to deal with that.

"Let's get out of here." He said. He got out from the room without even checking whether John was following him, but he stopped when he heard John asking; he was  behind him, "Do you think Victor is still alive?"

He didn't turn, not right away; it was surreal to hear John say that name: past and present were colliding; he had honestly not thought that it could ever happen.

"Yes,"  Sherlock said. Unlike Janine  or whoever they would kill next, he _mattered._ Just like Molly did, although for completely different reasons. Victor Trevor – had been important to him. 

It was surprising because he had thought he genuinely didn't care about Victor any longer. He felt vaguely sick thinking about the fact that although Victor mattered (he didn't even know why, in which way, he only knew that he did) he would let those people cut him to pieces, on national TV like they had threatened to do with Joan, before he allowed John to be used for that game.

Definitely _not_ good.  And he didn't care.

 

_When he had faked his suicide he hadn’t had the chance to properly look at John. Not that he needed a visual aid, and there had been his voice, after all: disbelief, frantic incredulity, fear._

_He had said goodbye, thrown his mobile phone and his whole life to the ground and he had fallen._

_He couldn't stop looking at John on Appledore's terrace._

 

"Sherlock," John said, "This isn't just about you or me."

"I'm aware of that. It doesn't change what I think." Sherlock replied coldly.

And he knew that it wouldn't change what John was thinking either. He would want to sit in front of Herman Bennett, he would listen to him. If not for Victor, he would do that for Molly – or even for Janine because John Watson was a good man.

He was _not_ a good man, though.

 

_For the first time in his life, Sherlock experienced what it truly meant when people said that time slowed down. It happened while he looked at John in the few seconds right before he pulled the trigger._

_Plan B was sound, logical; it would still give them what they needed -- but John..._

_He couldn't do that to John._

_He looked at him, knowing that he was giving Mary what she had shot him for._

_He didn't particularly care._

_He had heard John's voice on Bart's pavement, that day. John wasn't talking. John was ready to face the consequences of his plan, of that particular mistake._

_No, not that time._

_John wouldn't be one of Magnussen's assets or the collateral damage of one of his brother's plans._

He saw that John had questions, about Victor mostly, but Sherlock didn't know how to answer them.

"Herman Bennett is just a pawn, John. Don't ever forget that." Sherlock said. 

Didn't those people know that he would sacrifice Victor in a heartbeat for John?

It didn't make sense.

There had to be more to it.

_He had killed other people before, but that was different. Killing those other people had been a logical choice, dictated by the imperative of surviving._

_Sherlock said goodbye to John because he knew that not even Mycroft could swipe the murder in cold blood of a media tycoon, in front of witnesses, under the rug._

_He had killed before, under duress most of the times, and the John in his head had been quiet, he had never looked at him with disbelief like John was doing now._

_It didn't matter. John would be safe, now. He wouldn't be owned by anyone._

_He said goodbye to John wordlessly that time. It was only fair after all._

_He told him aloud to stay well back._

_He had made a mistake once, he could not, would not repeat it again. He could not, would not drag John down with him._

 

*  

 

The  link to the streaming video had appeared out of nowhere on her computer screen. One moment she had been checking data on her computer and a moment later the screen had gone black and then the link had appeared.

Jack, the agent assigned to her protection, had actually made her step back; he had been the one who had clicked on the link.

"Jesus..." The man had muttered after a moment.

The man in the video was clearly in pain, he had been in pain even _before_ the video had gone on and showed the rest.

"Miss. Hooper..." Jack had said, half ordering, half pleading her _not_ to look.

The man was in a room: it was bare except for a desk and a chair. The man looked in his late thirties: he was lean, had dark hair, matted with sweat and blood, a too pale skin, normally she would probably think he was gorgeous, the kind of man one could easily get a crush on -- or try to hit on if feeling bold; she could only feel pity, though, while looking at him, sitting in that chair, his face bruised, one eye swollen shut, his nose broken.

It was bad enough seeing that man tied to that chair trying to get free, hurting himself trying to escape, but things got _worse_.

Things took a page out of some slasher movie and Molly knew, even before the end of the video, even before the three men got into that room, even before the injection -- that all of that was a message of some kind for Sherlock.

After all Jack and Mark had sort of become her shadows since what had happened to Sherlock two weeks before.

And even if she had been kept  out from what had happened, even if she _still_ hadn't seen Sherlock (she hadn't taken it personally, Greg had seen Sherlock almost every day and she suspected he wished he hadn't), she knew that things were _bad_.

She hadn't known how bad they were until they poor man in the video had had his thumb _sewn off._

What had shocked her had been that the man hadn't even screamed. Even if the quality of the video feed hadn't been great she has clearly seen the shock set in on the man's face. While one of the men had kept his head still, forcing him to see what was happening.

That was when she had called Greg.

That was when she had been informed about Janine's death.

That was when Molly Hooper really started to be afraid. Up until then she had been worried about Sherlock, but she had taken the measures to ensure her protection in stride. She was grateful for them, now.

Sherlock had lost weight since the last time she has seen him, Molly thought when he got into the morgue, a few minutes after Janine's body was brought in.

Of course, Sherlock had lost weight, she thought, he had been tortured by a serial killer, he had spent time in the hospital, he was still healing.

But there was more than that: she didn't think she had ever seen Sherlock that angry since she had met him. She had seen him sad, she had seen him drugged or doing his very best to be an insufferable asshole, but she had never seen him angry, truly, properly angry: it was something cold, jagged, calculated;  it was something  that was making his movements jerky, the few words he was saying were clipped and curt.

John looked worried when he joined them in the morgue with Greg, and it took Molly a moment to notice the way he was standing too close to Sherlock, and how some of the tension in Sherlock's bloody seemed to deflate, just a little.

"I need to see the video," Sherlock said.

She saw how Greg and John exchanged a glance at those words, there was worry in both their eyes and she felt instinctively that the man in the video was _not_ someone Sherlock didn't know, like Herman Bennett's victims (which hadn't stopped him from saving that girl, she thought) or the doctor that had been kidnapped in her flat.

No.

That was someone Sherlock knew. It had to be.

"Now, Molly!" Sherlock said, but unlike what she might have expected his voice had not been harsh. She exchanged a glance with Greg when Sherlock, who was vibrating with rage and energy, added a soft, "Please."

Greg  looked worried but nodded at her.

And Molly could only take a step back, noticing how crowded the morgue had got, she saw that John moved one step closer, positioning himself right behind Sherlock's chair.

Silence fell in the room as Sherlock watched the video. She had immediately put it on mute, acting on instinct, Sherlock didn't. Oh, no: he heard every noise, every broken sound the man in the video made, he probably inferred a lot from the three men's utter silence.

Molly blinked her eyes. She would _not_ cry in front of everyone. She would not –be weak. That was not what Sherlock needed, what her friends needed.

She started, though, when she felt Greg's hand on her shoulder.  Greg was smiling, but Molly thought that it was mostly for her benefit, which sort of moved her since Greg looked exhausted, she doubted he had got a decent night's sleep since Sherlock had been kidnapped. Well, no. She corrected herself: Sherlock, who had known and seen the damage Herman Bennett had done to his victims, had willingly traded places with someone he didn't know. And Greg couldn’t forgive himself for not stopping things before they got out of hand. He had never said it, of course, but she knew Greg and probably she would be feeling the same if she were in his position.

"We have his thumb," Greg said, but for a moment, Molly was sure he had wanted to tell her something else, even if she had no idea what it might have been.

Before she could say anything, John asked, "Is that...."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, still looking at the video: his face a pale, blank mask and Molly couldn't help noticing that the man in the video shared some of Sherlock's features: dark hair, pale skin, long limbs.

"I don't understand..." Molly said.

Sherlock paused the video, he turned and said, "A man's thumb had been cut off. We got the thumb as an incentive for me to play."

"Play what?" Molly asked.

"Good question, Molly Hooper," Sherlock replied. And he sounded like he had the night he had asked for her help.

 

_"You will have to lie to everyone you know: to Lestrade, to Mrs. Hudson and John. Are you absolutely certain that you can do that?" Sherlock asked._

_He took off his coat and jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt; Molly hesitated for a moment before inserting the needle into the man's vein._

_They would need Sherlock's blood. It would have to be convincing. Sherlock had told her that nothing would have to look amiss, that they could not make mistakes. Not that time._

_She was touching him, and for some reason, she had always thought that his skin would be cold at the touch._

_It wasn't. It was warm and soft. And Molly swallowed, thinking that it was possibly the first and only time she would be allowed to touch Sherlock._

_"Will it help you if I do this?" She eventually asked._

_"It will help everyone," Sherlock replied. He sounded sad, he sounded tired._

_"Perhaps it will not come to that," she said, smiling weakly at him, "you can defeat Jim and...."_

_Sherlock smiled back, "Perhaps..."_

_Who would have thought that Sherlock could try and comfort her while preparing to fake his suicide?_

"Who is that man?" Molly asked.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance and a small part of Molly, the one that had never really moved on, the one who had spent two years wondering whether Sherlock was still alive, whether he would ever come back whole (not just physically) because Sherlock and John...well....

They were in love. It was as tangible as the anger Sherlock was feeling or Greg's exhaustion.

She also noticed that John wasn't wearing his wedding ring anymore.

 _Oh..._ She thought and blinked her eyes, not allowing herself to show more. That would come later, she decided.

"His name is Victor Trevor,"  Sherlock said, but Molly couldn't stop looking at John, especially when Sherlock added, "We used to be close."

John's jaws twitched, and he moved, almost imperceptibly to get closer to Sherlock, and Molly got how personal, how bad things were for Sherlock.

She just had no idea how worse they would get.

 

 

* 

 

 

The man in the video looked about Sherlock's age, maybe a few years older; John had not truly paid attention to the images on the computer's screen, though. He knew he was supposed to, but he had focused on Sherlock, instead. Yes, he had seen the way the man, Victor, had been held still while someone cut his thumb off. He had heard the noises, seen the man go into shock, but it hadn’t really registered with him. 

He had briefly talked to Greg and he was sure that even Sherlock and Mycroft would agree on the fact that it was clear what those people, whoever they were, wanted: they wanted to destroy Sherlock,  but not before they hurt him in any way they could. It hadn't been enough to use Herman Bennett, to carve Moriarty's name on his chest, and torture him in any way that animal could come up with.

It wasn't even enough that there was Sherlock's name carved all over an innocent woman's body, whose only fault was – what? To be a doctor? To be blonde? To be in love with her fiancé? Or was there something else? Something they hadn’t discovered, yet?

It wasn’t enough for those people, who, despite all of Mycroft’s resources were still faceless, nameless.

They were using Sherlock’s past, now. One John had not been aware of.  One, he suspected, Sherlock would have been more than happy to let it buried.

Sherlock had not said a word on the way to the morgue, he had kept his hands still on his knees, his gaze unfocused, but John recognised when Sherlock's mind was hard at work and his walls were up, thick and virtually impenetrable. He hadn’t talked, he had given him space.

Until that day, the protection detail for Molly, Mary, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had only been a precaution, but Janine was dead because she had been publicly linked with Sherlock and Victor Trevor was being used as well. It wasn’t even clear what, exactly, did those people want from Sherlock, there had been no requests in the box, only the reminder to talk to Herman Bennett.

_We used to be close._

That was all Sherlock had said. No, that wasn't entirely correct, was it? Sherlock had admitted that Victor Trevor had been important to him. Which had been more than he had expected from Sherlock. Which could mean a lot of things: had Victor been a boyfriend? A friend? Had Sherlock been in love with him?

They were going home, now. Sherlock had been texting incessantly and John could almost pretend that it was a normal case, except that they weren't in a cab, but in one of Mycroft's cars, with the two agents, part of their protection detail.

"Protection detail for Harry is in place," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time since they had left the morgue. His voice was surprisingly calm as if his former girlfriend hadn’t been killed and someone he had cared about wasn’t being used as an incentive to play.

John blinked. He hadn't thought about his sister and Sherlock was probably erring on the side of caution, but he didn’t have it in him to tell Sherlock that Harry was probably safe.

“Thanks.” He said, instead.

Sherlock didn’t reply, he kept texting, Mycroft probably, and John thought that it was weird that the elder Holmes still hadn’t shown up, especially considering the siblings'  daily meetings for the past eight days.

If he didn’t know Sherlock, if he hadn’t spent most of the previous night in the man’s arms, listening to him as he finally started to open up about what had happened in the basement, John might have believed that the younger man was unfazed by what was going on. He knew better, of course.

 He had observed Sherlock, both while the man examined Janine’s body and the video and his reaction to those people's request had been impossible to miss; Sherlock was _angry_ , angrier than he had ever seen him.

"Could you stop staring at me, John?" Sherlock asked without looking up from his phone.

John knew that Sherlock would probably scoff and say something unnecessarily cruel if he said he was sorry about Janine and Victor, so he said nothing, but he didn’t stop looking at Sherlock.

 "You have questions,” Sherlock said after a minute of silence.

And John smiled, he couldn’t help it. The first time he had gone to a crime scene with Sherlock, during their first cab ride together, Sherlock had said the same thing.

“They can wait,” John said.

Sherlock looked at him and having Sherlock’s undivided attention, was good – even amidst what was going on.

“You are a terrible liar, John,” Sherlock said, but there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

John shook his head, trying not to smile or punch the window (how could he feel both angry and happy because Sherlock was still there, he had not chased off following trails only he could spot?)

“Why are we going home?” He asked eventually.

Sherlock sighed and put the mobile phone in the pocket of his coat, John noticed that the gesture made him grimace for a moment, but didn’t comment on it. There would be time, later.

“I told you. I’m _not_ going to play.” Sherlock said.

Was he bluffing or was he truly ready to watch someone he had cared about be killed? He couldn’t say. And that scared him. It scared him not knowing what Sherlock was thinking, not knowing, but expecting Sherlock to do something that would end up hurting him, hurting them both; because he was Sherlock and despite his promises and the previous night, he would still lie to him, he would still deceive him if he believed it was the right thing to do.

“Do we have a plan?” He asked, ignoring what Sherlock had just said.

Sherlock’s face did a weird thing: for a moment, there were no filters, no carefully blank look in the man’s eyes and John wondered if those feelings, those looks had always been there and he had not seen them or Sherlock felt safe enough with him and didn’t hide them any longer.

“Not yet.” He replied after a moment.

“If I don’t meet Herman Bennett they will –“ John trailed.

“No, they won’t. I told you already: I’m not playing. Not by their rules. Not this time.” Sherlock said. And for a moment, John couldn’t help thinking about something Sherlock had said the night before faking his suicide: he had said he didn’t want to play that time too, but he had been already deep in his game with Moriarty.

And John wanted to tell Sherlock they were already playing, that the moment the box had opened in that boiler room,  revealing Victor Trevor’s thumb and a picture of Molly Hooper the game had started, whether Sherlock wanted it or not.

And the worst thing was that he suspected Sherlock was playing his hand at the game and, once again, he was leaving him out.

 

*

 

 

 That was their home: the usual chaos that for John had always been a synonym of life, of excitement, of adrenaline rushes and silences filled with unspoken _things._

 He hadn’t asked any questions about Victor on the remainder of their drive home, despite Sherlock’s opening – and the fact itself that the man had been willing to answer  his questions was something John couldn’t really stop and dwell on. Sherlock had said that he wouldn’t play by those people’s rules, but he had no idea what it meant because Sherlock had not volunteered any more information.

If that had been a normal case they would be following leads prompted by one of Sherlock's deductions  by now, but Sherlock had done nothing, except for texting. He had  left Greg with Molly at the morgue and had said he wanted to leave. He hadn’t commented on the video, he hadn’t deduced a single thing about the images he had seen, not aloud, at least – and Greg had not asked.

Going to Herman Bennett had not been mentioned again.

Silence from Sherlock, all things considered, was not completely unexpected, not with the day they were having.

Before Greg's phone call there had been Mary's visit -- his instinct, the one honed with years of war had told him that Mary had not visited Baker Street to buy her own freedom or to cut a deal with them using the baby, his daughter, as leverage. Sherlock had only nodded at his words when he had voiced his concerns but hadn’t said a word.

He had briefly wondered why on earth he hadn't noticed Mary’s tells _before_ , why he had been so blind. It had been all so clear for him that morning.

The answers, though, would not change the present: the fact, for example, that she had looked like a woman sure to win that hand of the game.

Sherlock had sent two texts right after she had left and then, for a short while, it had been just the two of them...and things had been _almost_ good.

Sherlock had not flinched when he had touched him, the silence between them as he checked his wounds had been comfortable, warm even.

They were _lovers_ (had it been too soon? Too late? Had it been a mistake? His mind couldn’t wrap itself around what had happened), but things between them hadn’t drastically changed overnight. They were still solving crimes, they were still in the middle of some war with enemies they didn’t know, people who used henchmen as pawns, who killed innocent people just to deliver notes to Sherlock.

Killing Janine, of all people and what had happened in the warehouse seemed senseless to John. No sane person would have ever bought her claims to the tabloids. Yet, they had shot her to the stomach (a long and painful way to die) and had used her to play because Sherlock was _not_ a machine. He would have wanted to be involved. He had used her to get closer to Magnussen, but they had been friends, and John had been jealous and could still see Janine's body in that warehouse -- and it didn't make any sense.

That time they wanted to use him directly, though.  They wanted him to sit in front of Herman Bennett and – what? Listen, again, as he gloated about how he had tortured Sherlock? How had he raped him? How much had he got off on hurting him? Why? To humiliate Sherlock? To break _him?_

Moriarty had threatened to burn the heart out of Sherlock that night at the pool. Those people – they wanted to _rip_ him apart – and were using any means to achieve that goal.

"Agents Drake and Harris are not listening, and I know you don’t care about Mycroft’s surveillance, so you have questions, haven’t you?" Sherlock said, breaking his train of thoughts.

 _Understatement,_ John thought _,_ handing Sherlock a cup of tea. He hadn’t asked for one but accepted it with a nod of his head anyway.

 _"_ Not about your  past lovers," John said. He didn’t even know where that had come from.

He held his own cup of tea in his hands as he watched Sherlock sitting down on his chair, observing each and every movement to spot signs of discomfort or pain. Sherlock was being a good patient, he was being forthcoming, he wanted to _heal_ , but he couldn’t take risks. Sherlock was in pain, he could see it, but he would not ask for painkillers, he would only ask, later perhaps, to check on his wounds and stitches.

What he had just told Sherlock wasn't strictly a lie. Generally, though, one found out about a partner's exes through old pictures, not through sewn off thumbs and streaming videos of the act. Or murders.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his words, skepticism clear on his face and sipped his tea.

"How many still to go?" John asked, and he was surprised by his own words: they came out harsher than he had meant, more judgmental. And he – bloody hell, he sounded like a git!

He shook his head and said, “Sorry – that came out…”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively saying, “No need to apologise, it is a legitimate question given the circumstances. Sexual intercourse just for the sake of it lost its appeal soon after Victor, therefore, the list isn’t terribly long. I told you last night, I was not a virgin when I followed Herman Bennett.”

John wondered whether Sherlock realized that he still danced around the words. Even after the previous night, even after he had told him the gist of what had happened.

“And Victor?” John said, changing the subject because the truth was that neither of them was ready, yet.

There, he had said the name, in their sitting room, the name of a man whose existence he had ignored until a few hours before. Sherlock placed his cup of tea on the small coffee table next to him and said, “What about him?”

He had already told him that the man had been important to him, which knowing Sherlock should have been enough, but it wasn’t, not really. It had taken Sherlock a mere look at a thumb to know that it was Victor Trevor’s. And John didn’t even know what exactly he wanted to know about the man.

All he knew was that he had questions and he _knew_ the timing for them couldn't be worse; he knew that there were two victims: a dead woman and a man kidnapped (people Sherlock had known, not perfect strangers who bore a passing resemblance to either of them.) and the game was _on_ (Herman Bennett had said it was a _war,_ and so far they already had casualties on both sides) -- but the questions were there, just on the tip of his tongue.

_Did you love him?_

_What happened? Who is he?_

 He noticed that Sherlock was keeping his right hand on his knee, perfectly still, and  that – that was _good._ That meant Sherlock was in control, and John wished they could just forget all about it and focus on moving on, on getting better.

“We were close, it was a long time ago,” Sherlock said, and John saw that Sherlock had followed his gaze, he probably knew what he had been thinking. What he had been worried about. He was choosing his words very carefully. And he knew he should probably let it slide, that they should postpone that conversation, but his words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself: “were you together?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes. I thought it was fairly obvious given the game they are playing.” He sounded annoyed, now. He sounded so much like himself that John didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or punch a hole through the nearest wall. He settled for blinking his eyes and look at the man sitting in front of him.

"You said that relationships were not your area..." John mumbled, feeling stupid because his mouth just could not shut up because he couldn't help it but want to know what had happened, how that man from Sherlock's past had contributed to making Sherlock the man he had met.

Sherlock let out a weak chuckle at his words, and said, "One failed relationship in my early twenties sort of proves my statement, wouldn't you agree?"

"What happened?" John asked. He couldn't quite believe they were having that conversation, not with Janine's body in the morgue and everything else that was going on.

Sherlock sighed, "Whatever happens to many young people who fancy themselves to be in love, I suppose. I don't know, John, you have had your fair share of failed relationships since I met you, why did they fail?"

If Sherlock was being a bastard it meant things were good, John felt actually relieved; he doubted Sherlock had realised how eerily similar he had behaved to the day they had been in Herman Bennett's house while they were in that warehouse and while in the morgue. Granted, he hadn’t messed his hand up, he hadn’t groped him in and looked like a man possessed, but the look in his eyes, the way his body moved, as if Sherlock wanted to jump off his own skin, had been the same.

"They weren't you," John said with a small smile. He didn't even care how insufferably trite those words sounded. It was the truth. And it was liberating. He wished he had understood that simple truth a lot earlier.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he saw that his lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile. As if, despite everything, he was _better._

He needed to believe that.

"How romantic..." Sherlock said, his tone was one of mockery, but there was warmth in his eyes and he looked a fraction more relaxed than he had since they had got Greg's phone call.

"What are we going to do?" John asked. 

"Either way they succeed, John," Sherlock said after a moment, and John could detect weariness in the man's voice when he added, "if I refuse to play they will keep killing people and hurting Victor, if I agree you will be in the same room with that man – and I will have to watch. You read the first note."

John sighed, "I know you don't want me to see that man, Sherlock -- and I know this mustn't be easy for you ..." He trailed.

"But you will want to see Mr. Bennett anyway because you are a good man. That is what they are counting on." Sherlock said and, despite everything, he heard the pride in the man's voice while he said those words.

The thing was that Bennett couldn't just disappear, he couldn't be given pentothal or some variation of it, the information they needed couldn't be gained by _torturing_ him. The bastard had made sure of that or, rather, the people behind him had. So, he would have to sit in front of that man, and he still didn’t understand to what purpose.

Sherlock wasn't talking, John knew that he didn't want to tell him, out of habit or, perhaps, because he wanted to protect him.

"John..." Sherlock whispered, but didn’t add anything else. He got up from his armchair, his movements still too slow, still those of a man who had healing wounds all over his body and John wanted to tell him to stop, to stay there, to continue what he had  meant to say, instead he looked at Sherlock and locking gazes with him felt good, and it also scared him because he knew that look, he had had it on his face right before he had killed Magnussen.

"Listen..." John trailed, unsure of how to end his sentence: _don't_ _leave me out? Don't make me watch you die again?_

Sherlock drew in a breath and said. "That day on the rooftop Moriarty said that I was ordinary. That I was on the side of the angels."

He didn't know that. Sherlock had told him about the threats to Mrs. Hudson, Greg and him. He had told him about the three bullets, but he didn't know what else Moriarty had said. He didn’t know what words the two men had said to each other before Sherlock had to jump. He supposed that for James Moriarty the fact that Sherlock used his brilliance to help people had been an unforgivable waste of talent.

"I told him that I may be on the side of the angels, but I am not one of them. I was _not_ just buying time." Sherlock said, “I suspect they know – and they just want to see how much I was right. I also told Moriarty something else, that day…”

John didn’t talk, he let Sherlock study him, read him. Did Sherlock expect any judgment from him? Did he think it would change what he felt? What had he felt at the time?

Sherlock, apparently, was satisfied with what he saw in his eyes because he added, “I told Moriarty that I was prepared to do what others couldn’t. That I was prepared to burn.”

 

_I will burn the heart out of you._

 

 Sherlock didn't wait for his reply, he blinked his eyes and slowly went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John closed his eyes, ignoring the uneasiness he felt knowing that Sherlock was in that room. He couldn't help it.

Those people had declared war to  Sherlock and now that he had decided to fight back there would be no stopping him.

The East Wind had come.

 

*

 

It took Sherlock a moment to  realize that he was standing in the same position he had been in the night he had broken the mirror.

He had looked around first, when he had got into the bathroom, trying to spot changes, things out of place, since Mary had used the loo that morning. It has been an exercise in futility, but that hadn't stopped his mind from observing every detail of the room, leaving the mirror for last.

 That night, the night he had shattered the mirror on the wall with his fist and palm, John had left (as usual, but oddly enough his mind had been elsewhere and he hadn’t minded too much), but before he did he had wanted to kiss him. And John had wanted to, as well.

He hadn’t indulged in his desires, of course. Discipline had won over his impulses; ignoring John had become harder and harder, but the alternative would have been unthinkable. It would have meant losing him for good, and that had been simply unacceptable. It still was, even now that he knew that John loved him back. Even now that they were, technically speaking, lovers. Who was he trying to fool? Losing John, especially now, would annihilate him. 

The bathroom had been dipped in the dark that night, that much he remembered, he had forgotten to turn on the lights as it sometimes happened and his mind had been unforgiving: there had been fireworks red with blood and faces, wounds, deaths clogging up everything inside of him and the next thing he was truly aware of was the sharp pain in his hand (back and palm, knuckles and the pads of his fingers).

The broken mirror was still there, reflecting just parts of him. He recognized the man in the mirror, and that – was _good_. And there was John, outside. John had still questions, John didn’t understand why they weren’t following leads and doing all they could to find Janine’s killers and the people who had kidnapped Victor.

And Sherlock should tell him that playing the game went against every fiber of his being, that time. He should tell him that he had fought alone for two years and although it had been dangerous it had been better than _that._ Better than a game whose rules were made to break him at every turn, whether he won or lost. He should tell him that he was waiting for texts from William Moore and from his brother.

He had done no such thing and he would not.  

He thought that John would want to ask further questions about Victor, perhaps.

Victor: the first time he had allowed himself to truly care, to forget about Mycroft's words.

"Sherlock?" John said, interrupting his musings.  He hadn't heard him opening the door. How long had he stayed there? He hadn't even heard him following him; he had not heard him opening the  door and getting into the room.

He could see John through the broken mirror: he was pale. John was scared for him. He oughtn't to be, though. He was fine. He would not inflict damage to his hand. He would not (go to pieces again) do anything stupid. John needed to know, though. He needed to know how much he was not a good man. He needed to understand. That was why he had told him about what he had told Moriarty that day.

Everything but one thing.

 

_I am you._

"What are you doing?" John asked, interrupting his musings. John didn’t need to know _that_. Ever.

"Nothing. Just checking on something." Sherlock said. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie. He had wanted to check whether Mary had left something there because her presence in their flat that morning could not just have been a coincidence.

Mary was not stupid, though. Whatever her intentions had been she would not have left tangible proofs of them.

She had looked happy. But why? Why was she happy? Why had she shown him the cracks through her perfect façade? It didn’t make any sense.

"First thing tomorrow we'll have a new mirror put on the wall," John said.

Sherlock turned. John Watson kept surprising him. He quirked his lips upwards, it wasn’t exactly a smile, but it felt _good._

_Prepared to burn…_

 

"I think it's time, don't you?" John continued as if he hadn’t said anything in their sitting room. As if he didn’t _care._

 Sherlock nodded. He knew that John had questions, but he wasn’t going to ask any in that room, not while his hands were still gripping the edges of the wash-basin.

“We should check the wounds,” John said after a moment of silence.

Sherlock nodded. “In a minute.” He said.

John let out a sigh. He took some steps into the bathroom and sat on the lid of the bathtub saying, “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock let out a chuckle, he couldn’t help it. Did John truly think that he would lose himself again? He supposed it was a fair concern given their recent past, but it was a luxury he simply couldn’t afford.

“What?” John asked.

“I never had sex with Janine.” Sherlock blurted out, frowning in confusion. That was _not_ what he had meant to say! He had meant to hurt John, to tell him that he didn’t need a minder that, despite evidence to the contrary, he could spend five minutes alone in that bathroom without breaking furniture and slicing up his hands.

John blinked his eyes but didn’t speak.

“I told you that sex for the sake of it lost its appeal after Victor, it was still true last summer,” Sherlock said.

“So…” John said.

“The only person I was sexually and romantically interested in at the time was –“ Sherlock trailed.

“Yeah. Honeymoon with my assassin wife. I remember.” John bitterly said.

 “Right. Her claims to the tabloids were lies –“ Sherlock said, neglecting to mention, once again, that John hadn’t known about Mary’s past at the time, that he was hardly to blame for – marrying a nurse who had helped him, who had been good to him.

“I know. Yet they killed her. Why?” John said.

“She was convenient,” Sherlock said, he shook his head and added, “and a friend. She was killed because she was my friend.”

He saw that John wanted to say something, maybe that he was sorry or some other rubbish to which he honestly didn’t know how he would reply to, but he  thankfully decided against it.

 “It’s not your fault,” John said.

“Of course, it isn’t.” He replied. And he knew it wasn’t. just like he knew that Herman Bennett’s serial murders weren’t his fault, or the scars on Joan Adams’ body weren’t. What he knew and what he felt, deep down, seemed to clash apparently. Which was unusual for him. Guilt was something he was not really accustomed to. He had killed people and he had never felt guilt, after; those acts had been necessary, it had been a matter of survival, but that was different.

 

_Prepared to do anything…_

 

“Sherlock – “ John said.

“Not now, John,” Sherlock said. The last thing he needed was to be told that he shouldn’t blame himself.

He knew that!

John was looking at him, he knew that even though he was looking straight ahead of him, and why were they still in that bathroom anyway?

He stalked outside the room, grimacing in pain, because he couldn’t forget, not even for a minute, about the stitches and healing wounds on his body and went to the kitchen.

The night he had smashed his hand against the mirror he had lived the whole experience, until John had kissed him, with detachment: one minute his head had been filled to the brim with faces of people he had killed, people who had tried to kill him and had almost succeeded, with Magnussen’s lips against his skin and a moment later it had all gone away, leaving behind a tabula rasa, no feeling at all, not even physical pain.

John had stayed – John had kissed him – and he hadn’t left him ever since. John and he were lovers and he suspected that he had put John in an even graver  danger the night before when he had kissed him and brought them both to climax.  He would never learn. He should have learned his lesson with Victor.

“Sherlock…” John said. He was right outside the kitchenette. He was giving him room, now. Now that he could breathe again. How ironic.

  He still wasn’t moving. Sherlock turned and looked at him: John was worried and tired and angry, he wanted to help, he wanted to start a war and win it for him, to make him better.

  The words, the trite words: subject, verb, and object were there, he could feel  them in his mouth;  their weight, how utterly inadequate they were to convey just how vital  John was for him.

"John, I..." Sherlock trailed.

John took another step, closing the distance between them.

He could breathe; it felt, for a moment, like that morning, before Mary’s phone call, when it had been just the two of them – and the past, the future had been meaningless.

“Listen to me…” John said. He touched him, moving slowly as if to warn him, and Sherlock wanted to grab John, he wanted to show him that he was not afraid, that he wasn’t going to shatter (it had happened long before the basement, it had happened on a rooftop and he was starting to see it now, and why wasn’t John kissing him? Why weren’t they in each other’s arms?) but couldn’t say anything, so he nodded his head, instead.

“Why did you trade places with Alyce Bradford?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked. He had not expected that question. Herman Bennett would have killed her, he would have shot her through the head not caring about being caught; he had known it the moment he had seen the man for the first time.

He had calculated the odds, he had erroneously thought he would knock the man out cold once Alyce was safe.

“I know what you are trying to do…” Sherlock started, but John stopped him by placing his hand right above his heart. He wasn’t touching him, though – the bloody wounds in his chest were still there. And John could never stop being himself. Not even then.

“Answer my question.” John said, “truthfully.”

“Herman Bennett wanted me, not her. I miscalculated.” Sherlock said. And it was the truth.

“Why did you give your coat to Joan?” John asked.  He hadn’t missed the way John had stifled a sigh at his answer. Did John truly believe that he had acted out of altruism with either woman?

“That’s a stupid question, John. She was cold and naked.” Sherlock said. He wanted to move, to shove John away from him, he wanted John to _touch_ him. He wanted to kill those people, whoever they were and go on with his life. He wanted to undo time, to rip its fabric and delete the past few years of his life.

He could do none of those things. He could only look at John who smiled and said, “Why did you cure my limp?”

He could lie. He _should_. He could tell John that he had needed an assistant or that a limp soldier would have been useless to him. He could tell John that he had cured his limp because he was bored,  he could tell John that he had cured his limp because he could do that, he had known it would be child’s play because he had got the moment he had seen John what the man had needed.

“You didn’t think I was a freak.” Sherlock heard himself say in a low voice, “you didn’t tell me to piss off.”

In the end, that was the true reason, wasn’t it? He had cured John’s limp (and John should stop thinking it had been a miracle. He should stop thinking he was a miracle worker. He wasn’t.)  because  John  had been – _John._

“You saved my life – and Alyce’s, Joan’s and the life of ours friends. Don’t you ever, _ever_ think that you are in any way similar to Jim Moriarty.” John said, his eyes boring into his and Sherlock could not move a muscle.

How did he know? How could he know?

John’s fingers trailed up, lingering for a moment on his neck and collarbone and Sherlock closed his eyes. The words, those three words, were useless – they were trite and dull and John knew, knew about his feelings; everyone did, apparently – and yet Sherlock felt, again, the impulse to say them, to really be _ordinary_ and utter subject, verb and object.

He opened his eyes and John was looking at him, his face open, his eyes told him that he had meant each word he had said.

“You know that I would let everyone die before putting you at risk?” Sherlock said. And he knew it was a lot of not good. And he still didn’t care.

John smiled, “I know – but it still doesn’t make you similar to Jim Moriarty. You said you were prepared to burn…”

Sherlock nodded.

“But you jumped instead,” John said.

“And that, dear John, is something we want to avoid that happen again if at all possible.” It was Mycroft’s voice.

John  didn’t step back from Sherlock, he only lowered his hand and turned, greeting Mycroft saying, “What took you so long?”

 

*

 

   It felt comforting for Sherlock, despite everything, to know that he could still deduce things accurately, even if there were moments wherein he felt like a figure stick with a giant head full of _nothing._

Some part of himself had felt his brother’s presence even before he actually saw and heard him enter the flat: he had recognized the sound of his steps, the matching clicking of Anthea’s heels, he had smelled him. The fact that Mycroft had finally decided to move his enormous backside and grace them with his presence was not surprising. Yet, Sherlock moved away from John (he would regret it, later)  and strode toward his brother hissing, "Make him talk!"

Mycroft had visited Herman Bennett, he knew that, he deduced it immediately; just like he had deduced his previous visits to the man. Mycroft was bending the law to make sure that Bennett would not leave the facility where he was being held. He was making sure that he was in his power.

 And yet, those people were still using him to play their games. They _knew_ because they knew _him_ , that talking to Herman Bennett had not sorted the desired effect. Yes. The man had tortured him. Yes, the abuse had been unpleasant and humiliating and painful, and yes, _God_ , yes, he knew he still had to really come to terms with what had happened, starting with why he hadn’t killed the man when he had the chance – but John, the idea of John in the same room with Herman Bennett repulsed him. Every fiber of his being rebelled against that idea.

Mycroft was smiling as if he was having a childish tantrum and Sherlock took another step, closing the distance between them and repeated, "Make him _talk!"_

That was not the moment for one of their feuds. It wasn't even the moment to remind Mycroft about their past, about the way it had been perfectly _fine_ to crack codes that had started wars or kill people on the line of Government sanctioned missions, but he had had no troubles sentencing him to death two months before (without even giving him the choice to die on his own terms) when he had killed Magnussen.

"I am working on it!" Mycroft said.

It was the truth, he could tell when his brother was lying to him, but it wasn't enough. Not that time.

He also saw that Mycroft was worried, and Sherlock didn't care.

"Work faster!" He replied. He tilted a finger up, stopping him before he could start to list his objections.

He _knew._ He knew about the media circus surrounding Herman Bennett,  he was not blind! He knew that the reason he had carved his own name all over the victims’ bodies was to make sure that his name was known. He knew that the people who had made his obsession for him possible to become more were also making sure that his name, his presence, his murders were not forgotten.

He also knew that there were things Mycroft (the British government) couldn't do.

But he also knew his _brother_. He knew Mycroft better than anyone and he knew that he could get results, he could get things done in a matter of hours when he wanted to; he knew just how powerful he truly was. Why wasn't he doing something?

"Sherlock..." Mycroft started, and Sherlock clenched his jaws. He hated the patronizing way his brother had just said his name because he knew what it meant, it was the tone of voice he used even he thought he was being puerile and unreasonable.

Mycroft tilted his head on a side gesturing him to go outside because he couldn't stop being himself, not even then, he couldn't stop thinking about things that didn't matter. Nevertheless, he followed him, focusing on his right hand, on trying not to close it in a tight fist.

That was not the moment to drown in molasses, feel unreal or even hurt himself.

He looked at Mycroft, once they were outside, in the sitting room, while Anthea was in the kitchenette with John and had closed the door (as if it made any difference, as if John wouldn’t hear anyway) and maybe people were right after all: maybe, despite what John had just told him, he _was_ a psychopath, because all he could feel at the moment was the urge to kill, to hurt, to be what he had _almost_ become while he had been away. With a difference: he would enjoy every moment of it.

"That is quite unexpected," Mycroft said.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked. And he knew his brother’s words were ripe with further meanings. He wasn’t talking just about the current situation, he had also remarked about the scene he had witnessed. And he had to roll his eyes at his brother’s words.

“Victor Trevor. That is a name I did not expect to hear any longer.” Mycroft remarked.

Victor – how did they find him? Wasn't he still in the United States studying planets, stars, black matter and all that stuff that he had loved? The things that he had left him for?

"We knew there was a personal element behind these acts, but this is quite specific," Mycroft said.

Sherlock snorted and said, "Truly, Mycroft, I think that was quite clear."

"Have you wondered how did they find out about Victor Trevor?" Mycroft asked ignoring his words.

Sherlock didn’t reply. The truth was that Victor had not wanted their relationship to be public, at the time. It was something he wasn't particularly fond of remembering, even if it was necessary. Mycroft knew that. He had been aware of the nature of his relationship with Victor at the time, only remarking on it after Victor had left. He realised while looking at Mycroft that his brother had never, not once, expressed any judgment on his choice to abide by Victor’s wish.  He had used that knowledge to push his buttons, to make him work for him, but he had never asked him why he had abided to Victor’s request, what exactly had happened. He had been _discreet._

There must have been gossip at the time, among their common acquaintances, but no one had ever seen them together as a couple, he was certain of that. He never did things halfway.

"They hacked your files, obviously," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"There _aren't_ any computer files, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked at his brother, blinking. There _had_ to be files.  Mycroft kept files on everything and everyone!

Mycroft sighed and took a small leather notebook from his breast pocket and handed it to him. “I mean it, brother,” He said, "see for yourself!"

Sherlock opened the notebook, quickly skimming through the pages and frowned: he was absolutely certain that only Mycroft and he knew the key to the ciphered words on those pages. They had invented the code themselves a long time ago, before drug addictions, political ambitions, and life had turned them into what they were now, _whatever_ they were.

His past, his life was all in that notebook:  his history of drugs, his nightstands, Victor, his classmates at school, Redbeard, Irene Adler, his two years away, John, Janine –  it was everything there; down to the first cigarette he smoked when he was fifteen.

"Your assistant, then," Sherlock said, ignoring the way his fingers minutely trembled for a moment (and Mycroft did as well, thankfully).

"No!" Mycroft said. And his voice took a hard edge.

And Sherlock really wasn't in the mood to comment on the _sentiment_ he had just heard in his brother's voice, so he only said, "The fact remains that they are privy to information that it wasn't easily accessible."

Janine had been an easy target, but Victor – he was being used because Sherlock had loved him. They had looked for him, they had found him, taken him just to – play.

"I can promise you that it didn't come from my offices or _any_ of my people,” Mycroft said. And he meant every syllable.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, and mimicking his gestures of a few minutes before Mycroft invaded his personal space, his voice dropped when he said, “you know as much as I do that no _one_ could ever come close to this notebook or be able to decipher it, even if they tried.”

What he didn’t say was clear to Sherlock: they would only succeed in taking away that notebook by killing Mycroft and even if they did they still would not be able to crack that code. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

"Janine..."  Sherlock trailed, changing subject, but stopped. She had been used again. She had been killed because they might have been _friends_. Molly was being unsafe because she _was_ his friend.

"John can't and won't meet that man," Sherlock said.

"Oh, I will," John said.

Of course, John had been there, Sherlock has known he would follow him outside.

He was  sure Anthea had tried to stop him, it had all happened very quietly, though. And John was there and he still wanted to talk to that man. Which was inherently wrong. It was a surrender, it was like admitting defeat.

He ignored John for a moment, he didn't turn and look at him  and said to Mycroft, “ _Razaranje_ "

It was the code they had established to implement every possible action to protect Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, John and him. Mycroft had told him repeatedly that he only needed to say the word. He did.

 _Razaranje_ included dealing with Mary, baby or not; it meant the _destruction_ of each and every threat. It meant that if those people wanted a war they would get it. John thought he was not like Moriarty.  He  wasn't. That didn't mean her was a good person, though. Or a hero. Or a dragon slayer, like his brother, thought he saw himself.

Mycroft only nodded at that word.

Of course, he would. He had been the one who had come up with the plan after all.

Mycroft excused himself and went back to the kitchenette, even though Sherlock knew he would leave very soon, without saying goodbye, without adding anything. There was no need, now.

"What was that?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, "Nothing." He said.

He had already killed for John, but that was different. That was war.

That was the East Wind and it was unforgiving, merciless, bloodthirsty.

That was the guarantee that even if John sat in the same room with Herman Bennett (and he recoiled at the idea) it would be on _their_ terms. It meant fighting dirty, breaking laws, bones and veins. It meant that even if those people got what they wanted, even if they succeeded in destroying him, he would drag them down with him.

It was a good plan, one of Mycroft’s best. It was not like Lazarus, it was not like the other strategies Mycroft had planned for Magnussen or Moriarty. John would be safe. His friends would be safe.

"There is something else you need to see. Something that just showed up." John said.

John was angry because he knew that he was hiding something from him, but he couldn't care about _that._

John showed him his mobile phone, there were two texts coming from different, unknown, and most probably untraceable numbers, the first one read, "The next will be broadcasted live!"

Sherlock handed the mobile back to John.

"They are targeting people we know. People you care about." John said.

The second text was enciphered, for some reason: NMRYOEC.

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock replied, more coldly than he had meant.

John didn't ask him what the ciphered words in the text meant.

The cipher was simple, it had taken him barely more than a look to decipher it. It was just a step above the ciphered message sent to him in the hospital. But they weren't playing that kind of game, after all.

"Sherlock..." John trailed, but Sherlock stopped him before he could say anything.

"Not now, John." He said.

"What did the second text mean?" John asked.

Yes, better to focus on that rather than the code word he had used with Mycroft.

"No mercy," Sherlock said.

That was only fair, he thought. There would be no mercy from him either.

 

* 

 

It had been a long day. William was surprised realising that being retired hadn't changed the way his body reacted to long travels, to run on fumes, adrenaline, and coffee. He had been running on fumes (and anger) for over a week, now. There would be time to rest, to breathe properly again once he would go back to London and Joan would be better once he knew for sure that they were safe.

 He had barely touched the American soil when he got in touch with his contacts in Langley. He had exchanged e-mails throughout the journey with old acquaintances, though and  he had contacted some old friends, he had reminded some people of favors they owed him and the search had started.

The thing was that William Moore used to be very good at his job. It wasn’t what he had meant to be growing up, that life had sort of swept him on his feet, but that didn’t change the fact that he had been a good operative. And the people he had contacted, the people who owed him favors were the sort of people that no one usually gave a damn about; it was invisible people, small fishes and people who for some reasons always knew everything, despite what their official jobs were. His old acquaintances, his friends were the cogs that let the machine run smoothly.

 Mycroft Holmes had ordered him to fly under the radar, not to attract too much attention.

He had been tempted to tell Mycroft Holmes that he was retired, not a complete idiot –

 but that had been before he had started to study Mary Watson's file and the notes about her from Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes and, he suspected, a lot of agencies spread all over the world.

Laying low made sudden sense; what it didn’t make sense was why on Earth that woman was still free and she hadn’t been dealt with. He might not believe in the contents of the USB drive she had given to John Watson (who the hell did that anyway?) and neither did the Holmes’ brothers, but that didn’t mean that the information in that USB drive had been totally useless. On the contrary, it had told Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes a lot of things – neatly written down in the file he had studied for most of the journey to Langley.

Joan was fine. She sounded tired and in pain and her voice had still that drowsy quality to it due to painkillers; she had jokingly asked if he would still marry her if she developed an addiction to oxycodone. He hadn’t joked when he had said he would marry her anyway, that he wanted to get married as soon as he came back.

“I guess I will have to cut down on the good stuff, then. Bloody fantastic!” She had said, but he had heard the way her voice had cracked – and he had wanted to be there, with her, not thousands of miles away.

He was tired, but he still had work to do – to be correct: he had just started to work. He still had a phone call to make, the one Sherlock Holmes had asked him to.

He sighed, sitting on the bed of the hotel room he had finally checked in – his internal clock was shot to hell and he was pretty sure that he hadn’t had a decent sleep for over a week, but it didn’t matter. The sooner he got things done, the sooner he would come back home with the knowledge that Joan and he would be safe.

He dialed the number and couldn’t help blinking his eyes in surprise when a woman answered right away.

“Hello, I’ve been waiting for your call.” The woman said. She had an English accent, her tone was sultry as if she was used to another kind of phone calls, but there was also a hint of impatience in it.

“Miss?” William trailed.

“No names, darling.” The woman replied. There was a pause and then she added, “Where are you?”

“Langley, Virginia.” He said. He had no idea who that woman was, but Sherlock had assured him that she could get information, that she could get names, dates and whatever else she wanted or needed.

“Good. I’ll text you where to meet in a second. Delete the text and hurry up. We have got a lot of work to do.”

William sighed.

He had no idea that the woman formerly known as Irene Adler had got a text from Sherlock and had spent the better part of that day traveling to Langley to join him. He couldn’t know that Sherlock had not threatened Irene, he hadn’t needed to. He couldn’t know that Irene had never given Sherlock her new number and that the fact that she had found it, without his brother’s involvement, she was sure, had only confirmed how serious matters were.

He couldn’t know that Irene Adler had still some contacts in London and that she had been actually worried for Sherlock. He couldn’t know that Sherlock Holmes had destroyed her life but had given her a new one, for which she was grateful.

He didn’t need to know that. The matter of fact tone of voice had told him that she would help, that she would accelerate things and that was the only thing he cared about.

He disconnected the call and was already outside the door when the text arrived.

It had been a long day – and it still wasn’t over.

 

*  

 

Some things, good and bad alike, were inevitable, John thought. They were in their bedroom and John thought that it was always supposed to end up like that: Sherlock and him, together, despite their nature, despite Sherlock’s past and his own denial. He had told Sherlock that all his previous relationships had failed because none of the women he had dated were him. It was the truth.

Some things were meant to be, despite his doubts and fears; like the way Sherlock had kissed him, after Mycroft and Anthea had left: drowning the words spoken and unspoken between them that day, for the past two weeks, since they had met, in heat and soft lips ghosting over his skin.

He had never believed in fate before Sherlock, but there was not an ounce of doubt in his mind, hours later, as they lied in bed and he could still smell Sherlock on him, he could still taste him on his lips and on his tongue, that it couldn’t have been any different.

Sex didn’t solve problems. Sex was not a panacea. That was what Sherlock had told him the night before, and it was still true.

There was the sense of belonging, though. He had fought it, deep down, for years, for a lot of reasons that seemed so meaningless, now. He belonged to Sherlock – and he knew, deep in his gut, that Sherlock felt exactly the same.

No.

Sherlock felt more.

Even if he had not uttered a word after he had started to kiss him, after his long fingers had trailed down on his body, undressing him, gently guiding him to their bedroom, John knew that Sherlock belonged to him.

It was fate, it had been inevitable since the day they had met, at Barts, and Sherlock had instantly known everything about him. It could have happened in a million of different ways and John wondered whether Sherlock had had similar thoughts, whether he had imagined like he was doing now, different scenarios for _that_ inevitable outcome. It might have happened when they had barely known each other, it might have happened in the days before Sherlock played his last game with Moriarty. It had happened, in his dreams, painful and so vivid, after Sherlock had died.

Love, lust and heartbreak and pain and grief. Their lives in a nutshell.

It might have happened after Sherlock came back, if they had been different men if there weren’t things, people (Mary), in the way.

It would have happened even if Mary didn’t turn out to be – whatever she really was. It would have happened even if Sherlock had not broken the bathroom’s mirror and he hadn’t  opened that door.

He was absolutely certain of that because being in Sherlock’s bed, their bodies touching wherever the wounds on the younger’s man body allowed it was right.

There were wounds and scars and Sherlock’s past – and he supposed he should have tried and talked Sherlock out of it, but Sherlock had kissed him, over and over, and there had been no hesitation in the man’s eyes, in his body.

Some things were inevitable.

Sherlock had said something to Mycroft, it was probably a code and he would ask Sherlock, he would ask him, again, what that word meant – and he would reply, he would possibly lie to him, again.

He would try to keep him safe, to protect him, to sacrifice himself for him. Because being loved by Sherlock Holmes meant just that, because Sherlock could not do things halfway.

“You are thinking,” Sherlock said, it was a whisper that danced on his skin and John felt, once again, how inevitable that moment had been: Sherlock’s lips against his skin, his fingertips ghosting over his skin, the warm cocoon their bodies had created.

They were not cuddling. They were – hanging to each other, he realised. He placed a kiss (he could do that, he could kiss Sherlock, he could hold him – it was real, it had been real for years, it had just taken him too bloody long to realise that) on the first patch of skin he could reach with his lips (Sherlock’s forearm, he noted) and said, “Yep.”

“About?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled. His lover was a genius and he had just asked him a normal question.

“Deduce it.” He said.

“Mmm…” Sherlock mumbled. He didn’t move, it would have been painful, he let his fingers trail up and down his body, lingering on his face, and John – he got what Sherlock meant when he said he would let everyone die rather than putting him in danger. He would do the same, at that exact moment.

“You are thinking about what happened. You don’t have doubts any longer.” Sherlock said and added quickly, “Thank God.”

“Correct,” John said.

Sherlock huffed a breath and started to touch his face again whispering, “Stay exactly like this – don’t move, please.”

“Don’t intend to,” John said. _Ever_ he added to himself.

“You – were thinking about Mycroft’s visit.” Sherlock said and he felt his body tense, but the man continued, “I suppose I will have to tell you.”

“That would be –“ John started.

“It’s a code.” Sherlock replied interrupting him, wrapping himself closer to him, not caring about the wounds in his body (he was healing. He was better. He was a survivor.) and said, “it’s meant to ensure the protection of the people closest to me and plucking out each and every threat.”

Each and every threat.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock said, replying to a question he was still formulating in his own mind, “including Mary. Mycroft will not cut a deal with her, he will not listen to what she has to say, that’s not what _Razaranje_ entails.”

He didn’t like that word, he didn’t like the way Sherlock said as if he was having one of his nightmares and mumbled words in foreign languages.

Sherlock moved, that time, allowing John to do the same. He irrationally wanted Sherlock to stay closer, he was furious, he was relieved – he was scared. His daughter - Would they care about her? Would Mary?

“John,” Sherlock said.

It had always been inevitable. He should have got that the first time he heard Sherlock say his name.

“We will try and save the baby, of course,”  Sherlock said. John nodded. What else could he do? Mycroft had left hours earlier, things were surely already in motion, but part of him wanted to – _spare_ Mary.

Mary had saved his life. She had reminded him that he was still alive, she had brought him back from a monochrome life, a Sherlock-less life that had seemed senseless, that had left him crippled and unable to properly breathe for a year and a half.

She was an assassin, she had shot Sherlock – she had come to their flat the previous morning ostensibly to cut a deal with them, but she had looked different: she hadn’t been the woman he had met (that woman never existed anyway), she hadn’t been the woman who had sat in that very room a week after shooting Sherlock and had given him an USB drive with loads of bollocks in it; she hadn’t even been the woman he had come back to, because Sherlock had needed to buy time.

He didn’t know, he had no idea who that woman was.

“John…” Sherlock said. He didn’t sound worried, he sounded perfectly calm, but his right hand was splayed above his chest and John could feel Sherlock’s fingers twitch.

“She isn’t even born yet…” John said.

“They will do everything they can to save her life. Everything. I give you my word.” Sherlock said.

  Inevitable. That word kept coming up in his mind even later after Sherlock had fallen asleep, and none of them had talked anymore. That word echoed loud and clear in his mind, in his gut when he heard the mobile on his nightstand vibrate.

There was something his grandmother used to say and for some reason, while he took the mobile phone and Sherlock didn’t wake up, he couldn’t help thinking about her words. She used to say that when things were meant to happen scientists and geniuses lost their minds and medicines became like water.

Some things were inevitable.

He read the text, blinking his eyes, after.

He didn’t wake Sherlock up, he didn’t make a sound.

Inevitable: like the fact that he would have to sit in front of the man who had tortured Sherlock and listen to what the man had to say. Not for Janine, not for Victor Trevor

 It was inevitable, it was –

It was the game, the war.

And he was a soldier and a doctor. He was used to making choices.

It was inevitable.

 

 

* 

 

  While Sherlock Holmes was deducing John Watson by touch – and John would have been surprised had he known that Sherlock didn’t believe in fate and yet his thoughts weren’t very different than his own about their relationship, Mary Watson had been in her flat, drinking chamomile tea. Her protection detail was outside: it was composed of four men, each pair had a twelve-hour shift: they were highly trained operatives, discreet, silent and _predictable_.

There were bugs in her flat, she had spotted them within the first day they had been placed in her house, but had not removed them; she was not an amateur, those things had their use after all.

Her phone calls were monitored, so were her e-mails and her internet history. Not that she had expected anything less from Mycroft Holmes. She also knew that her flat was thoroughly checked weekly, it had been for months: the people who did it were good, but she was, to put it simply, better.

In another life, the one that she had thought she had left behind, she had learned a lot of valuable lessons about patience and about planning ahead. _Everything_ had been planned; while Sherlock Holmes travelled the world, trying to tear down James Moriarty's web, while he slowly made his way back to London, things had been already in motion.

She loved the structure of the plan, she didn't care about the _vision_ behind it all or the endgame,  she only cared about a part of it and she had wanted (needed) that job. She had made it impossible for _them_ not to give it to her.

She had used every resource she had, she had helped to set things in motion while Sherlock was  fuck knew where playing the game and John Watson went through the motions, devastated by the loss of his best friend, still so much in denial about his feelings for the consulting detective that he wouldn’t have recognized the truth if it bit him in the ass.

She had always been good at her job, but that time she had been excellent. That said when she heard the doorbell ringing she couldn’t help being surprised for a moment. She had expected a reaction from Sherlock after the events of that day; it was only logical. She knew what would happen in the next few minutes, yet she took her time finishing to drink her chamomile tea. She rinsed the cup in the sink before going to the door. Things would become quite hectic very soon, but until then she would keep up her façade. It was one of the rules. It was how she had survived.

There were four agents outside her door. She listened to their words and nodded. They were bringing her somewhere for questioning. Which was an elegant way to say that they would let her rot in a secret facility somewhere or they would kill her the moment she gave birth to her daughter?

“May I take my coat?” She asked. And she wanted to roll her eyes when two of the agents escorted her pointing a taser at her back. Did they think she was completely stupid?

Or unprepared?

“Shall I have to pack a bag?” She asked, her voice still calm as if she was asking about the weather.

That wasn’t the first time someone wanted to bring her in for questioning her. The last time she hadn’t been pregnant and the orders had been very different. The last time she had killed the people who had tried to bring her in, but realistically speaking the odds were not exactly in her favor. At the moment, at least.

“It’s not necessary, ma'am. You will be provided with everything you need.” One of the agents said.

They were not part of her protection detail. They were not there to protect her, they did not care that she was pregnant. They would not hesitate to kill her given the chance.

“All right.” She said, putting her coat on.

Things were moving more quickly than she had anticipated. Good thing she wasn’t alone in that. Good thing that the people above her knew what they were doing.

She didn’t object when two agents flanked her, tasers still pointed at her back and the others watched the perimeter (they were good. Highly trained, clearly used to those sort of operations.)

They only handcuffed her when she was inside the car; they did it the right way too, and she ignored how tight around her wrists the cuffs were.

She didn’t ask whether the handcuffs were necessary; of course, they were, it was the protocol; hadn’t she been pregnant they would have probably already stunned her, repeatedly.

She closed her eyes when the car started.

 

_"Marry me..." Alex said. They were in his kitchen, eating hamburgers, both still wet with the joint shower they had just taken, both still running the high of adrenaline that came with the job and his smile, the way he said those words, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, as if he was an idiot because he hadn't asked her sooner kind of made her heart flutter in her chest. Alex had made her heart flutter in her chest – and it had been a first for her. It was one of the reasons why she had fallen in love with him. He made her feel alive, truly alive._

_She was still chewing her hamburger, while Alex looked at her expectantly. She had spent most of her adult life alone and it hadn't been bad. Until she met Alex and now, she honestly couldn't imagine her life without him, she didn't want to._

_"Yes!" She said, and she was surprised when she realised that she could still cry and even more so that she could cry with happiness._

_They met halfway, when she wrapped her arms around him he was already there: real, solid, hers, in that kitchen bathed by the rising sun._

Her tears, when she opened her eyes were real. It was possibly the first unplanned thing she had done since she had come back from the United States after Alex’s funeral. The agents ignored her and she looked at the window, seeing the road pass by. For a moment, just a moment, she was scared for the baby. She didn’t care about physical pain, she wouldn’t have lasted long if she had been. She didn’t care about pretty much anything. But she had still a job to do and the people above her, her current bosses (or was it partners? It didn’t matter anyway), wanted her to succeed.

 If Sherlock had suspected that she was not just – a former assassin whose past he had deleted when he had killed Magnussen, if he had known or suspected that what had happened to him for the past few weeks – was basically her assignment, she was sure that she wouldn’t be driving a car with just four agents in it.

Sherlock didn’t know, though.

 

_“A tattoo.” Alex said. “Seriously, babe?”_

_“Like a heart attack.” She replied putting on a t-shirt, one of Alex’s and getting into bed._

_“What’s wrong with wedding rings? I’ve seen them on people like us too.” Alex replied. He was smiling, he had the sweetest smile she had ever seen and she thought that it was amazing that she could make someone smile, that she was discussing her own wedding and it was not a scheme, not a deep undercover operation._

_It was real. It was the real thing – the forever thing she had never believed in and was happening all the same._

_“Too dangerous.” She said._

_“People know we’re together,” Alex replied, still smiling, his hand trailing down the sheet and finding her legs._

_“People know we fuck, it’s hardly shocking.” She replied._

_“So we’ll not wear the rings,” Alex said shrugging and right there his hand trailed up, and she sighed, spreading her legs._

_“Nope. When we get married, I – I want to have something – “ She panted, not finishing the last sentence._

_Damn, he  was good!_

_“Go on…” Alex said. He was smirking, moving his fingers inside of her just the way he knew she liked it._

_“I want…” She said, licking her lips._

_Alex cocked an eyebrow, expectantly, his fingers stilled inside of her. “What do you want? You don’t talk, I don’t move…”_

_She tilted her head, God…she could come just like that because Alex meant it, he always meant what he said._

_“I want something permanent.” She said and was rewarded by Alex doubling his efforts._

_“Interesting.” He said. She could hear lust in his voice, in the way it was coming out hoarse._

_“Don’t move, sweetheart and don’t utter a sound until I say so…” He said, when she tried to, because she wanted to make love to him._

_Because unlike what she had told him, they had never fucked._

_Even now, they weren’t fucking. Even if Alex’s fingers were pistoning in and out of her and he was flicking her clit with his thumb and she had to remember to breathe, but if she did she would cry out and Alex had asked her not to._

_“I like this,” Alex said, shifting on the bed, moving to be atop of her._

_“So – where do we get married?”_

_She cocked an eyebrow, without talking, letting out a gasp when Alex was inside of her._

_She didn’t care. She just wanted to be with Alex._

_He knew. When, eventually, he whispered against her lips that she could utter sounds, she cried out his name. And she said that she loved him. She always did._

_She always meant it._

When the crash came, Mary didn’t shout. Even though she had not expected that.

 _Here we are._ She thought.

Apparently not only had Sherlock started to play for real, but things were going more quickly than expected.

Sherlock Holmes had decided to fight dirty, but he still had too much to lose. A fact she had personally made sure it would be clear to him. It was pivotal that he had something to lose. No. not something.

Everything.

She was not scared of pain, she had never been. She was not scared of anything. The pain came, and she accepted it because that too was part of the plan.

Mary Morstan had been a work of art: she was born for a purpose, but she had ended up being much more.

She would miss her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Razaranje, according to Google, means destruction in Serbian.   
> There is a reason for the lack of descriptions of smut scenes between Sherlock and John. I ain't shy, that's for sure:)  
> According to my notebook and the gazillions of pages of plot and scenes and dialogues in it, there should be four more chapters after this one.   
> It is also the longest piece of writing I've ever done...and I have no idea how long it will be at the end:)  
> See you soon, I hope you enjoyed this chapter   
> (off to modify the tags - they're about a million, now)


	16. Chapter 16 ~ Before and Now II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Photographers were snapping pictures (and John would keep one of them, a newspaper clipping, in a drawer of his desk) and everything was finally, finally real. There wasn’t the ghost of blood on the pavement, of the lack of pulse on Sherlock’s wrist.
> 
> Sherlock was back. He was alive.
> 
> And so was John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update - real life has been hectic, as usual. Hope you all enjoy the new chapter. I want to thank, once again, those who are sticking with the story and is showing patience with the irregular updates. Thank you:)  
> The verses of the song in this chapter belong to Adele's "One and Only"

 

 ~ Before ~

_AGRA had been Alex’s idea. It was his baby, really. Alex had meant it when he had told her that he would make sure that she was safe whatever happened. The first time he had said those words, words that under other circumstances she would have considered corny and hopelessly naïve, she had instead been moved by them._

_If anyone had heard her new husband talk, they would have thought that he was just that: a naïve man who had no clue about who she really was. They would have thought that he didn’t know that the fact that she was still alive was not a miracle, but the result of her actions: leaving no one behind who could identify her, being cold hearted and ruthless._

_Alex, though, was_ not _naïve. Alex knew perfectly who she was and what she had done to survive, and he didn’t care. Alex had been in that life longer than she had and yet he believed in redemption, in second chances._

_He believed, and that was the strangest thing of all to her, that she deserved to be saved, to have a clean slate and start over. He wanted that for her more than for himself._

_AGRA had been Alex’s wedding gift: a plausible identity in case her new alias, the one she would use once she started over, was burned. She would use other aliases before she reached her final destination and AGRA was to be used only if things went completely south._

_Alex wasn’t one for jewels and he knew she was too practical for trinkets of any kind, so he had given her yet another way out in case she was discovered._

_AGRA was a plausible, cleaned up version of her own life and jobs. She didn’t ask how he did it, what he had done to have that identity created,  how many favors he had had to call in, how many favors he would owe until he could get out as well._

_Years later she would wonder whether that last job, one Alex hadn’t really needed was connected to AGRA, to how seamlessly he had invented yet another alias for her that would give her power to cut deals, to negotiate, to buy time and be safe anyway._

_She wasn’t one for remorse, of course, she wasn’t, yet that thought kept her awake while she still was trying to understand how to live, how to go on and whether there was a point to it. It was that single thought that had set everything in motion: from the first long hours, the sleepless nights she had spent on the internet searching for information about Sherlock Holmes to the following steps -- everything had started with that single thought: had it been because of Alex's wedding gift? Had he died because of her?_

_AGRA had been untouched, its files strategically buried in servers all over the world and a memory stick safely tucked away while she made her new identity even more solid, the kind of identity that would fool a man like Mycroft Holmes, and spent every other moment_ _setting_ _up shop for her assignment, once she got it._

_She had initially chosen Mary Morstan as her alias, as her new life because it had been practical: she had a good English accent, she knew the basics of anatomy and drugs well enough to be a decent nurse and England, despite CCTV cameras, could allow her to hide in plain sight. What was supposed to be her new beginning had become her longest job. The hardest of her life._

_AGRA was not perfect, nothing ever was, she had known that unlike Mary Morstan's profile, it would not hold under close scrutiny, especially not Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes’, but by the time she gave John Watson that memory stick things had been already in motion for years, sitting down between those two armchairs had been one of the goals all along. She hadn’t been worried._

_She had learned what John and Sherlock’s weaknesses were, she had learned how to exploit them and the fact that she was able to give John that USB drive was evidence of it._

_Sherlock talked about sentiment, that night. He talked about surgery, mistakes, and she played along -- because why not? She had counted on Sherlock’s help, after all. He hadn't disappointed her._

_Sherlock’s heart had been breaking, he had been dying – he had been sacrificing himself for his best friend (and the man he had faked his death for, taken down Moriarty’s legacy for, killed Alex for) and that was rather the point._

_One of them, at least._

* * *

 

“Do you understand why?” Victor asked, the tone of his voice  was hesitant.

Sherlock looked at the man: his elbows were on the table, his long fingers laced together, his knuckles were white. He was nervous, he was – scared and hopeful.

Yes. Of course, he understood. He was _not_ stupid.

“Sherlock?” Victor said, “An answer would be appreciated.” He hesitated and said, “any sort of answer.”

“I didn’t take your father for a homophobe, Victor,” Sherlock said.

“He isn’t. It’s not like that.” Victor said quickly.

It was perfectly fine and acceptable for two wealthy young men to share a flat as long as there weren’t any rumors about them. It was perfectly fine for Sherlock to slide on his knees and take Victor in his mouth until the other man could do nothing but chant his name, over and over, but it was _not_ fine, it was not acceptable to be seen as a couple outside, in public. 

Victor was a terrible liar. That was one of the first things he had discovered about his _flatmate_ when they had met; he had dozens of tells, he couldn’t remember his lies, he couldn’t keep the  stories straight to save his life. It was endearing, actually.

Apparently, he was good at lying to his family about the fact that he was gay. There was always something, wasn’t there?

“I’m not –“ Victor trailed and shook his head. Victor was a good person: the sort of person who helped old ladies to cross the street, who held doors open to the ladies, who took lost causes at heart.

Part of him wondered whether he was just that for Victor: a lost cause, with the added benefits of regular sexual intercourse. He blinked his eyes choosing not to follow that train of thoughts.

“Gay?” Sherlock said with a smirk, “I beg to differ.”

Victor shot him an exasperated look, but his lips curled up in a smile, “Duly noted.” He said. He let out a sigh and said, “It’s complicated, Sherlock. I don’t want us to hide forever. I truly don’t.”

Yes. He _was_ a terrible liar. An abysmal liar, but he was believing in his own lie at the moment. He truly believed in his words. Sherlock got up from his chair; they were having that conversation in their kitchen, the kitchen of two young men who didn’t spend their nights _shagging_ and their days studying. It would be preposterous, wouldn’t it? It would be unacceptable.

“Fine.” He said after a moment. Unlike Victor he was an excellent liar; second only to Mycroft. He did not care, one way or another, about what people thought, about what his own family thought, but Victor –

He _cared_ about Victor. There were boxes in the sitting room that Victor had helped him bring there in the flat they would be sharing, there were his toothbrush and soap and shampoo in the tiny bathroom, Victor had made room for his clothes in the closet and his microscope, some of his books, his violin and Billy the skull were already in the spare room.

“Fine?” Victor repeated. And he sounded almost disappointed, for some reason. Sherlock didn’t understand: Victor had asked him to keep their relationship a secret and he had just obliged. Was he supposed to do anything else?

“Shall I sign a nondisclosure agreement? Should we shake hands?” He asked. And he was proud of the casual tone of his voice, how laced with boredom it was. He was really getting better at that.

“Don’t be an arse…” Victor said. He got up from his chair as well (there were two new mugs and plates and there were three different kinds of tea in the cupboard. There was also a human hand in the fridge, one he had bought from the local morgue, he supposed he would not tell Victor about it, after all.) and got close to him.

The pull – the attraction, it was something Sherlock still tried to fight sometimes. Because it was not logical, because no one was supposed to hold such power over another person, over him. Yet Victor did: long limbs, pale skin, piercing blue eyes, angular features, a deep voice that had, more than once, got him hard, especially when talking about science, about chemistry and physics.

He should try and resist the pull. He had always prided himself to be above all that: base impulses, libido, lust, sentiment. Caring was not an advantage, he tried to say to himself, but Victor was smiling – it was the small smile he made when he was shy, when he didn’t know how to approach him, when he considered him highly volatile, but he still wanted to be with him.

“Sherlock? If you want us to be public, if you don’t agree with this – just say it. I want to be with you. Sod the rest!” Victor said. He was telling the truth, he could clearly deduce it from the earnest look on his face, from the set of his shoulders and the way he was looking at him.

Victor was also afraid, though. He was afraid of his answer. He was afraid he would tell him that he didn’t want to hide, that he had never hidden in his life, that what they did in their private life was anyone’s business but their own.

Victor was torn. He was – a good man, but he would not bear the scrutiny, he wouldn’t bear his family’s reaction to the knowledge that their precious son was queer. Victor didn’t care about his family’s money, but he cared about his parents’ opinion. He wanted his parents to be proud of him. He wanted to live up to their impossibly high standards and he already knew that down the line he would disappoint them, it was inevitable. Sherlock  knew that Victor would crumble under the pressure, under the lies he was forcing himself to say.

 If he said that he thought that what Victor had proposed was preposterous he would merely accelerate the process – and he would lose him; that idea made his insides clench for a moment and before he could dwell on those feelings he quickly said, “Don’t be daft! I said it is fine. Now that the matter is settled may I go back to my experiment?”

Victor kissed him and Sherlock was taken aback by the relief and the hints of disappointment he could taste and feel in the other man.

He let himself be held by Victor – it wasn’t a chaste hug, the one _flatmates_ might share in special circumstances, but there was no one who could witness it. He made a mental note to himself to go and  re-examine the past few months to deduce who might know and suspect about them and took a step back, breaking there embrace with the man.

“It won’t be forever. I swear!” Victor said fervently, “You know that I love you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he believed him.

It would take him a long time, it would take him falling desperately in love with John Watson, it would take him seeing John getting married to Mary and eventually having him in his arms.

It would take Sherlock to see Victor Trevor again, while John did the stupidest thing he had ever done, to understand that Victor, that day, had wanted him to say _no_.

 

 

* * *

 

~Chicago~

 

Sherlock Holmes had discovered a lot of things since he had jumped from Bart’s rooftop.  He had discovered, for example, that he might be a SIS, on paper, so to speak: Mycroft had been creative with his status within the secret services, but fieldwork, real fieldwork, in foreign countries, was not exactly his milieu. His past affiliation with the British intelligence had not included those sort of things.

He had discovered that there were all kind of rules and protocols to follow, even while pretending to be dead. He had mistakenly assumed that one of  the points of feigning his own death would  be the freedom of roaming around the world, on his own terms, in order to take down Moriarty’s web, thread after thread. He had discovered, though, that there was a reason for those rules: they kept one alive.

Or, at least, they were supposed to avoid him being taken and – well,  there wasn’t really an elegant way to put it, was there? If he had followed those stupid, dull rules, he wouldn’t be in an old apartment of a decrepit house being _tortured_. Again.

The three men who were taking turns at punching, kicking, hitting and cutting him were living clichés: all three men were hugely built, they were dressed in black, they even wore  leather dusters. 

For some reason he couldn’t stop staring at the walls: they were covered with a yellow wallpaper, it was peeling off and there were stains of old blood and mold in some spots.

 He had discovered something else since he had fallen from that building: working on his own was not like it used to be. Being alone – was not as pleasant as it used to be.

 _No._ He ordered his mind, gritting his teeth in pain. _That was not the moment. Not the place._

If he wanted to survive and get out of that room, if he wanted to gain the information he needed, he would have to focus, to clear his mind! He needed to _think_ , to observe, to forget his life in London!

 He had walked into that trap fully knowing what to expect; he had known there would be physical pain – and there was: his skin burned, his shoulder throbbed, the iron of the manacles at his wrists was chafing his skin –

And he was also starting to get bored with the situation.   

He knew those three idiots would have fun while clumsily trying to interrogate him, he had known that would happen but, in the end, he would get the information he needed.

 As plans went it was not his best, the most cunning or clever he had ever had, but he had got tired of running in circles throughout America’s Midwest. His previous contact had given him precise coordinates and he had spent time and money to get there, therefore he would have his answers. He would do what he needed to do.

Moriarty’s web was colossal. If things had been different, if things hadn’t got too personal he would have admired the late man’s work. It was truly a work of art: it was a complicated, multilayered web, each thread strong and apparently disconnected from the others, but that was only the surface, of course. All the threads were somehow connected to each other and Sherlock had to tread carefully not to reveal himself as he brought Moriarty’s organization down. 

Mycroft had estimated it would take him a year  and a half to complete the job, but Sherlock knew – because unlike his lazy brother he had been traveling nonstop since the day after his “funeral”, that it would take more. Much more. Provided, of course, that he would survive the current situation.

There was a reason for all the dull rules SIS had. If he hadn’t been alone, if he had proper backup he wouldn’t be bleeding from superficial wounds all over his body – shallow cuts that would not leave scars but kept bleeding, his skin wouldn’t be burning as if acid or salt had been poured over it and two men wouldn’t be dragging him toward a – big  bucket filled with water. The bucket was on a table in a corner of the room and Sherlock blinked.

 _Oh_. He thought. He supposed waterboarding was too sophisticated for the three people he was with.

 

_John,_

_I am alive. Lies have details, but the truth never needs it. This particular truth, however, might need a few details, I suppose._

He groaned – and then had to roll his eyes at those morons’ idiocy. They were laughing, speaking in German, of all languages, they had atrocious accents, all three men were American; did they truly think he wouldn’t understand them while they commented about what a  crybaby he was?

Was he truly mentally writing a farewell letter to John? Seriously? His timing was appalling!

 _“It truly is! I suggest you concentrate on your surroundings._ Now _it would be a good time!”_ John, the John in his mind, said. Brilliant as always, _his_ John.

He steeled himself for what was about to come. They would not kill him, not yet – and so far pain was manageable.

  _Instinct_. He had to control his base instinct. He could do that. 

He had to.

The water was ice cold. It was a shock, even before the primeval part of him started rebelling. Ice cold water against almost feverish hot skin made his heart stutter in his chest.

One of the men, the one with a thick silver ring on his right middle finger was keeping his head down in the large bucket, pulling his hair.

He would need to breathe soon and he was aware of the fact that it didn’t matter how much he tried and rationalized, he would start fighting to get free and they would hurt him, they would keep his head down, in the water, which smelled vaguely of chlorine and urine and he would have to open his mouth.

He had a very narrow window of time to think about what he would do, after. He pictured the room and the objects in it: what could be used?

The three men were larger than him, they were walking wastes of air, but they were also strong and, to use a colloquialism, trigger happy.

He fought his instinct, the fight or flight response, with everything he was – and he would have won because he had practiced being underwater in similar circumstances for prolonged bouts of time without breathing in the months immediately before what had happened on Bart’s rooftop. He had thought he was prepared for all kind of scenarios.

He learned that day that he wasn’t.

He hadn’t imagined that idiot number two would punch him, with brass knuckles, to the kidneys.  How could he have missed _that_?

 _“Close your bloody mouth, you dick or you will drown!”_ John hissed. John was in the water, with him. Why was John with him?

 _“Where else am I supposed to be?”_ John asked.

He did as John ordered and closed his mouth, right when idiots number one and three were pulling his head above the water; he thought, for a moment, that it wasn’t the first time he had heard John’s voice. It was happening more and more frequently.  Generally, though, it wasn’t so vivid. It wasn’t as if the man was really there with him.

He  wheezed and threw up what it felt like liters of water – just how long had he stayed under? He took in deep breaths. It hurt, his lungs burned, but he needed to clear up his mind. He needed to escape. That charade was mind numbingly boring.

“Feeling talkative, yet?” Idiot number two, asked, grinning.

Breathe. In and out. Breathing had never seemed less boring than right in that very room.

Three versus one. Plus two people outside (he had expected more), the mole and the driver.  He needed the name of Jim Moriarty’s emissary in the Midwest. The mole didn’t know or else Sherlock wouldn’t be in that room, he wouldn’t have been forced to do _that._  He had started from the bottom up: getting rid of small fishes, petty criminals, and those three idiots were the missing link.

 He was tired of playing, his left side hurt, his lungs burned, his shoulders and two fingers of his left hand throbbed. He decided that it was enough – he had the three men’s attention, he had to act _before_ they could inflict more serious damage. Before they started with electricity, after all, they were quite predictable and old school. 

God, he missed John.

_I arrived in Chicago last week. I had never been here before. The travel took a long time, I had to swap means of transport for days, it has been impossibly impractical and boring, but  it is imperative that no one finds out I am still alive._

_If you are reading this – a letter which, right now, isn’t even properly written yet, it means that you know the truth. You know why I had to fake my suicide. You must surely know about the threats to Mrs. Hudson, to Lestrade and to you._

_I knew that they would target you, John. I knew James Moriarty would use you to carry out his plan, to fulfill his promise. He said in the pool that he would burn the heart out of me and he told me, when we met after the trial, that he owed me a fall._

_I was, I must admit, reluctant, at first. It took Mycroft weeks to convince me that his plan would guarantee your safety._

_Nevertheless, I am sorry that you had to endure that. I suppose that saying that I saved your life with an act of cruelty wouldn’t make a lot of difference to you, but it is the truth. I also suppose that you were right when you accused me of being a machine._

_You are alive to do so, though –_

The first thing to do was to free himself from the manacles. The idiots had not even checked him properly and the mole had slipped him the keys when he had dragged him into the room. That had  been part of the deal.

One of the things he had had to endure  when Mycroft had tricked him into working for him had been physical training. He had resisted it, at first; he had always practiced martial arts after all; he had thought it would be a monumental waste of time. He had also thought he had been a good fighter, but Mycroft had not relented and the chance of solving puzzles had been too tantalizing, the siren call of cocaine too loud, therefore he had had to do as his brother had asked. He still resented him for that.

But physical training had turned out to be a pleasant surprise; even learning those ridiculous moves akin those of action movies John had been so fond of had been interesting. The training (which had also been another excuse for Mycroft to make sure he stayed clean)  had proved to be useful on a number of occasions and Sherlock had known, since the first day, that he could excel at it.

He had.

He also knew human anatomy; he knew how to _cause_ pain. He had hoped to solve things differently – it was proving to have been wishful thinking and unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time, either.

 _“Idiot number two first. He has a gun and he is a psychopath. He’s the leader.”_ John said.

“Obviously…” He mumbled and he smiled when the three idiots  exchanged smirks.

Honestly, did they think that a few hours of shallow cuts, sprained muscles, a dislocated shoulder and possibly a clean fracture of a couple of fingers would break him?

Later he would pretend he had forgotten, that he had deleted what had happened. He would give a statement, write a report (and then their parents still wondered _why_ he would strangle Mycroft in his sleep.) and he would give the bare facts. The truth was different, though: Sherlock remembered every single detail, sound and smell of those moments.

He would later put a lid on those recollections, which would end up torn open by Charles Augustus Magnussen and Herman Bennett, but it mustn’t have been that solid to begin with.

He would always remember the sound of a snapped neck. It was not the first life he had taken with his bare hands and he realised that it wouldn't be the last either. Jim Moriarty had not liked to dirty his hands and if he had known more about his past: about the codes he had cracked, about the messages he had decoded – lists of people, of places, of dates; if he had known about the people he had refused to help because they were numbingly boring, he would have gloated more about how similar they were.

Years later, in a moment of – weakness, fear, grief (he could grieve – he had never learned how to deal with that horrible feeling, but he _could_ ), he would think about the words he had exchanged with Moriarty on the rooftop, he would think about a lie he had told the Irish man, “I am you.”, and he would think, for the first time since that fateful phone call by proxy, that it had _not_ been a lie.

It would take John Watson to set the record straight, to remind him that he was not like Moriarty.  And he was not – that night, in that warehouse, he dirtied his hands:  the people in that house were not the first he had to kill, but that time it was different – he got the name he needed because unlike the three morons he knew how to get answers and he had received clear instructions (had Sherlock been someone else they would have been _orders_ , but that was a matter of semantics) not to leave witnesses behind.

No one.

It would take just one person, one act of mercy, one moment of weakness to make the plan fail. He learned, that night, that as much as he didn’t care about people, as much as he could be an arsehole he was not, despite what John had said, a _machine_. He was human: he shivered violently when the mole helped him out of the warehouse, still feeling sure that he wouldn’t end up like the others because of pre-existing deals. Sherlock was still bleeding; he had also forgotten, for a moment, that the temperature was below zero, he had forgotten why Chicago was called the windy city.

The instructions were clear, they were sound and logical. The mole was not afraid, he had had guarantees, he had been paid and offered a fresh start; he should have understood that there couldn’t be any different outcome.

The mole started to understand only when Sherlock shot the driver, once they were at the appointed rendez vouz point.      

 The mole had – _hopes_ , he had been on the verge of retiring, he had only used that opportunity to get out of that life and have a fresh start. Sherlock deduced that; he deduced that there was regret in the man’s brown eyes, he deduced that the man realised that even if he tried to escape, even if he managed to kill him, he would be caught, he would be killed anyway.

 And there was something else: the mole was protecting someone (wife? Daughter?) by not setting off a chain of events that would cause his death anyway. He saw it all in the man’s eyes and face, he saw the resignation set in, he saw that he chose to surrender. He saw the loss and regret crossing his features.

He had been right in his deduction: the mole had – a life, someone waiting for him.  

He sympathized, but that didn’t stop him from pulling the trigger, using the last of his willpower to keep his hand steady (the morons had sprained muscles of his arms, but they had not broken the fingers of his dominant hand: their incompetence and cockiness was mindboggling.) and not miss an easy shot.

 Brian Cooper died a quick and painless death – and Sherlock was already fleeing, after ditching the body in a shallow grave, helped by CIA operatives, he was already running a fever and would develop  bronchitis within the following twenty-four hours.

Brian Cooper had not been the man’s real name. But Sherlock would find out that truth only later. Much later.

He had been right on one thing, though: someone had been waiting for him, for a phone call that never came.

 

* * *

 

 

The appointment was exactly in the kind of place that she had expected: away from London, far away from CCTV cameras and in the middle of fucking nowhere. Mary was mildly curious about  the man she was about to meet.  She didn’t even remember who had found whom, not that it truly mattered after all – what it mattered was that they had found each other. They had both been looking for something and they had found it.

 Mr. Neal had needed things that  Mary could provide him with and vice-versa. Their partnership – because as the months had gone by they had become partners, building everything from scratch – was born in the underbelly of the internet. There were other people, sure, but it had been the two of them who had put things together, who had laid down the rules and formed a strategy, who recruited people and gave them assignments.

They had never met  - and Mr. Neal had been very adamant about that and she had agreed with him because she needed the knowledge that even if things went south – for her, most probably, since she was the one physically in London, the plan, in all its parts, would still go on.

Mr. Neal had assured her that it would not happen, that as long as she treated what she was doing like a normal gig and not something personal things would be okay.

Their partnership had grown, they were in contact using the skills Mary had learned on the job and Mr. Neal’s resources. Mary didn’t care about the plan, per se, she had never been too greedy and she had been around long enough to see a vacuum of powers happening and the resulting struggles that came with them.

She didn’t even care about how much money she was making. It wasn’t like she planned on living a long life anyway. She was not in it for the power or the money and she knew that Mr. Neal was aware of that. It was the reason why he trusted her, after all.

If Mr. Neal had actually asked for a meeting it could only mean that she would finally stop observing and doing clean up side jobs and actually do something. If the man wanted to meet her it could only mean that they were starting, for real.

The black car that approached her was the kind of vehicle she had expected: luxurious but not too conspicuous and with tinted windows. There weren’t any bodyguards searching her before she could be allowed inside the car. There was just a driver – and a man in the backseat.

Well – the man was definitely _not_ what she had expected and  she chastised herself because that was an amateur’s mistake. She should and did know better: some of the best people she had ever met on the job looked absolutely harmless. That was why she had never got on the Jim Moriarty’s wagon, even before she met Alex: Jim Moriarty had been young, a genius, he had been charismatic,  but he had also been a complete nutjob, a man no professional who had a shred of self-preservation could _ever_ trust. 

 The man in front of her in the backseat of that car was _not_ crazy, but she already knew that. She wouldn't have wasted a minute of her time if she had believed he was like the others: the fanatics who were mourning Moriarty's death as if they had lost their messiah and prophet or even worse the little fishes with delusions of grandeur – both sorts were dangerous and impractical to work with. 

Mr. Neal had taught her that those people were useful as well, that they were assets: the plan, the strategy (an ember of it at first) had been Mr. Neal's idea, it had been an idea at first, she had just helped him to turn it into something real. 

 He was in his late forties, sharply dressed in a black suit and a white shirt, his black hair was peppered with gray at the temples, he had light brown eyes and when he smiled at her, she noticed his perfect white teeth and the fact that he had dimples; he had a nice smile, the kind of smile that inspired immediate trust, even from her – and she wasn’t easily fooled. Damn, he was good at what he did, wasn’t he?

 His voice was deep, with a distinctly American accent, for some reason she had thought he would not be American. She had thought that he was in her same time zone. He greeted her with a firm handshake (he had calloused fingers, so he was used to dirtying his hands if the situation required it), he gave her another smile and said, “It’s good to finally meet, Mary!”

As if it hadn’t been his idea, as if he hadn’t made it clear, time and again, how important it was for them not to meet in person. The thing about Mr. Neal was that he looked and sounded absolutely sincere: body language, the choice of words, the look in his eyes was impeccable. Mr. Neal’s words always made sense. People believed him, followed him -- trusted him.

She had seen how he recruited people, how he seamlessly spotted people’s insecurities, weaknesses, ideas and latched onto them, becoming indispensable for them. No one knew his real name, but he remembered each and every single person who worked for or against him. It was remarkable.

“Good to finally have a face to associate with the words.” She said.

Mr. Neal chuckled and said, “I know, and don’t think I haven’t appreciated your trust in me and your discretion.”

Mary smiled, “Mr. Neal, I’m not one of your strays,” She said. The strays were the people he recruited: Moriarty’s groupies, nutjobs who needed little pushes and guidance. It was Mr. Neal’s little army.

“Shall we talk shop?” She asked.

Mr. Neal smiled; there was nothing cold or calculated in his smile or in the look in his eyes, but appearances were deceiving; Mary knew for a fact, having witnessed the way he molded people exactly into what he wanted them to be or do. She had seen how the bare skeleton of a plan had become a reality. She knew that Mr. Neal was a cold, ruthless, mean motherfucker.

And she meant it as a compliment.

She was pretty sure that he would still have that warm, reassuring smile even if he was pointing a gun at her with the intention of shooting her between the eyes.

Mr. Neal said, “You are absolutely right. Let’s talk shop!”

The car hadn’t moved since she had got in and the driver got off the car as soon as Mr. Neal talked. She had half expected the man to shoot the driver and it slightly unsettled Mary the fact that the man seemed to read right  through her because he said, “Keeping a low profile is essential, _Mary_ – especially now.”

Mary’s heart lurched in her chest. She didn’t think she could still feel something – that she could feel _anticipation_.

“I think it’s time.” Mr. Neal said.

Mary wondered what was that man’s real name. It was the first time she did. For a long time, the handsome man in front of her had just been a nickname on a computer screen and the sender of disposable phones which came to her through the strangest  channels. They had only communicated through text, even with the phones – and yet he had proved her that she could trust him. He had kept his word so far, she had noticed that since the very beginning: he always kept his word with everyone, whether it was friends or enemies.

She didn’t care about the man’s real name, she decided, she had inferred the things she needed to know about him, but they didn’t really matter.

“Where is he?” Mary asked.

Keeping tabs on Sherlock Holmes’ movements was a double-edged sword: they could not afford to enquire too much, to get too close or MI6 and a lot of other agencies would notice them, which would defeat the purpose of the whole thing.

She had asked Mr. Neal, at the very beginning, why he didn’t get rid of Sherlock Holmes right when he was more vulnerable, while he was alone, especially because it would be more convenient for his plan.

Mr. Neal had told her that he needed Sherlock to carry out and succeed in his task.

It hadn't taken her long to figure out why: Sherlock Holmes was doing a remarkable job; he was taking down criminals, powerful men and women who would have taken Moriarty's place. He was basically doing Mr. Neal's job for him. Killing Sherlock Holmes would make Mr. Neal’s job incredibly longer and more complicated.

Mr. Neal (no first name, and it was only fair: she hadn't given him her real name either.) was picking up the pieces of Moriarty's empire, one brick at a time, being extremely careful in not to attract any unwanted attention. They flew under the radar – and it was a painstakingly long job and she should know since she had been there with him almost  since the beginning and had helped it happen. She still did.

"Last I heard he was in Russia." Mr. Neal replied, breaking her train of thoughts.

Mary smirked, "Well, that's rather vague."

"I'm afraid that's all I have at the moment.” Mr. Neal replied. He didn’t look annoyed at her words; she had had bosses and partners who didn’t like their authority being questioned in any way; come to think of it, it wasn’t something she hadn’t been particularly fond of either.

 Mr. Neal wasn’t like that; oh, there were bodies melted in acid that were proof – so to speak - that hee was not someone you could fuck with, and that had been something she truly hadn’t missed about her past, it had brought back memories of some of the jobs she had actually hated, but she knew Mr. Neal would not react to her words. He needed her. They needed each other.

  “He is getting closer, though. It's time, Mary. Are you ready?"  Mr. Neal asked.

He wasn’t enquiring after her state of mind, he would only do that in case he suspected she was not up to the task assigned to her. No. He was asking her whether her cover was solid enough to withhold Mycroft Holmes’ investigations once their paths would cross.

The answer was yes. She had worked on her identity long before she even knew who Sherlock fucking Holmes was.

 The answer would have been yes even if he enquired about her state of mind. Was she okay? No, but it didn’t really matter. She would keep it together for as long as it took, she would pretend, she would do everything they had planned.

 “You know I am,” Mary replied.

 “I made you a promise when we started, do you remember? You will _have_ what you asked for.”

His smile was still warm, she noticed the laugh lines around his eyes, he had dimples and full lips – he was a handsome man – and he was also incredibly dangerous.

He was using her – but that wasn’t anything new; she had known that since the beginning, Mr. Neal was using her grief much like  she would have to use John Watson’s. And it was perfectly fine with her.

“After all,” He said still smiling, “The satisfaction that comes from killing a person is, as I’m sure you are aware, short-lived.”

Mary smiled, it was possibly the first time she had really, sincerely smiled since – well, since her last phone call with Alex.

“I need you to do more than kill Sherlock Holmes, Mary. Everyone can pull a trigger, but it takes someone extremely motivated to _destroy_ a man, especially one like him.” Mr. Neal said.

 That was what she had asked for. That was the reason for the sleepless nights, for being in deeper than she had ever been.

Mr. Neal was right: killing people was easy, every schmuck could do that, and the satisfaction could be indeed short lived.

Breaking people, bit by bit, day after day; breaking them so pervasively and so subtly that they wouldn’t get it until it was too late took a lot of work, of patience and dedication.

Mr. Neal knew that. He might not know everything about her past (there was no one left who knew, not any longer.), but he knew about Alex. He was the only person she didn’t have to pretend with, he was the only person she didn’t have to wear a mask with. It was refreshing, in a way. She knew Mr. Neal didn’t care about her loss (why would he?), she  had no idea whether there was a personal agenda as well behind his plan. She didn’t particularly care. 

She would kill Sherlock Holmes, eventually, but before that – before she took his life, she would take everything else away from him.

But first she had to finally meet John Watson, she had to enter his life, she had to – follow the instructions, the plan.

She was good at that. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“That…” John half panted, half chuckled, “was amazing!”

Sherlock smiled at his words as he closed the door behind them.

“You scared the hell out of me, but it was amazing, how did you do it?” John said. He was smiling as well.

The fire was already cracking in the fireplace and John felt dizzy with relief. He took off his jacket, he couldn’t stop smiling.

“This warrants a toast,” John said and turned to look at Sherlock: the man was slowly taking his gloves and scar off. To be a man who saw his body as mere transport for his massive intellect, he had a way of moving that was almost hypnotic. Did he know? Did he realise? John couldn’t tear his eyes off of him. Which was nothing new, not really.

Maybe it was just the relief of being alive, of having survived – because they had! They were alive, they had survived: Jim Moriarty was dead, they were safe – well, as safe as their life allowed them to be. Jim Moriarty had played his game with Sherlock and he had lost.

And they were home, at last.

“A toast?” Sherlock wondered aloud, breaking his train of thoughts. He blinked his eyes.

No. No thinking – not that night.

“To celebrate –“ John said – and he honestly didn’t know how long it had taken him to talk, how long Sherlock and he had looked at each other.

Sherlock’s lips turned upwards, in an almost sheepish smile, which he didn’t think he had ever seen on the man’s lips.

“All right,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. That was good, wasn’t it? And Sherlock was standing near the fireplace, his body thin and perfect, his long hands on the mantelpiece and John – was afraid of moving. He just – couldn’t move a single muscle.

If he did, if he moved, he would _not_ go to the kitchenette, he would not look for the scotch bottle that Mycroft had given them for Christmas and take two glasses for the cupboard. He knew he wouldn’t, he was sure that he would take the five steps that separated him from Sherlock and touch him. He would.

He – he already was.

His body (heart) had taken control over his mind, he had moved without even noticing and Sherlock was mere inches away from him, now.

Pale, perfect skin, black tousled hair, and those impossible, maddening eyes. God.

“You scared me,” John said and that was something he would not normally say, he would not admit it aloud, but it was impossible not to – not while Sherlock had _that_ look in his eyes: he was cataloguing each and every detail about him, he could probably see every thought he was having, even those he was not truly aware of.

It was Sherlock, after a long stretch of silence of which John wasn’t truly even aware, who took the last step, who closed the distance between them.

John swallowed – it was a magic trick, just a magic trick.

Close. They were so close that their bodies were touching and it was _fine_ – more than fine.

“I miss you,” John said, and it didn’t make any sense because Sherlock was there – right there, in front of him, he had to crane his neck to look at him; Sherlock had taken off his jacket and had rolled up his shirt’s sleeves. Jesus – how could he not see? He had to know how and what his body did to him.

He was there – they both were: they were in their sitting room and they had won. It didn’t even matter how; what it mattered was that they had won. They were safe. Jim Moriarty had not won.

Sherlock’s right hand moved, slowly, almost agonizingly so, and his fingers trailed up his arm. It was a deliberate gesture, Sherlock was looking at him and having his undivided attention was – making him feel whole ( _and he missed that, God, he missed that so bloody much_ ).

Sherlock’s fingers brushed against his skin and John shivered – with want, with everything that the man had become to him.

“I was so alone –“ He heard himself whisper and he had to close his eyes. Why was he saying those words? The pads of Sherlock’s fingers traced his jaws and lips and John let out a breath.

It was a soft touch of lips at first, that was how Sherlock silenced him, and John’s heartfelt trapped in his chest – it was too much, it was _everything._

It felt like – electricity, like a thunderstorm, like a chase through London with adrenaline making his blood pump in his veins and John, didn’t, couldn’t remember when he had last felt so alive.

More.

He needed more. He needed to touch Sherlock, he needed to take him, taste him, taste the aftermath of adrenaline on the man’s tongue, feel the man’s body against his own, Sherlock’s heartbeat ( _not still_ ) under his palm.

“I miss you –“ He kept whispering between kisses. Sherlock didn’t reply to his words, he only kissed him and John had stopped even wondering why he was saying those words.

Sherlock –

Sherlock could kiss.

He had never imagined that he could be kissed like that. He had never imagined that Sherlock could kiss like that: hunger, desire, lust, and fear.

He was – they were moving and Sherlock’s skin was perfect.

“I miss you…” His voice repeated, low and hoarse with lust and something else – but it didn’t make any sense, it didn’t belong there.

They belonged there; he should have never have left him alone at Bart’s. But he had come back in time, hadn’t he? They had won, they had defeated Jim Moriarty, they had squashed the spider.

Sherlock was touching him. Sherlock was there, their bodies pressed flush against each other. Sherlock’s mouth  seemed to be everywhere at once and John arched his head and his heart was hammering in his chest.

Lips, tongue, Sherlock’s, trailing down on his skin , his fingers flicking his nipples, making him moan with pleasure; they moved together and John didn’t even know where they truly were, not any longer, it was too dark around them, but he didn’t particularly care because Sherlock was there and with each kiss, each touch of his fingers was making everything else unimportant. Unreal.

“I shouldn’t have –“ John panted, but Sherlock muffled his words with another kiss, one that took his breath away ( _like watching him fall, like a silhouette on the top of Bart’s rooftop_ ).

He kissed Sherlock, biting down on his lower lip and moaned against his mouth when he felt the man’s hand wrap in a tight fist around his prick.

“I –“ He panted.

 _I will not last long if you keep doing this. I want to touch you, please let me touch you._ He wanted to say.

“I miss you…I was so alone…” He said instead.

“John.” Sherlock breathed, “That’s my note -  it’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note…”

John closed his eyes, “Leave a note when?” He panted.

Sherlock was still close – he could feel his warmth, his lips were still tingling with the man’s kisses, his hips were snapping up, following the almost punishing rhythm Sherlock had set up. He couldn’t open his eyes – if he did – if he looked at the man who was bringing him to climax, the man he had kissed ( _watched him fall_ ) he wasn’t sure whether he could – breathe again.

“Stop –“ John panted, it was a broken sound and it had nothing to do with the pleasure he could feel coiling up in his spine.

“John – open your eyes,” Sherlock said. And it was a command and John knew – he knew that he had to comply. He had to open his eyes and he felt – no, he knew now that he was dreaming and he knew that when he opened his eyes there would be something terrible waiting for him.

“You will not be there,” John whispered and pleasure was building up in his body, he could feel his toes curling, and he hated that.

“Open your eyes, John. For me.” Sherlock said.

And lust and fear and heartbreak shouldn’t really mix and yet they were. John opened his eyes, fearing he would see Sherlock’s unseeing eyes and blood -  or a ghost, Sherlock’s, haunting him.

Sherlock was wearing the sheet he had been wearing at Buckingham Palace and pleasure spiked up and John had to moan, again, he had to bite his own tongue not to cry out Sherlock’s name as he came.

“Can – can you stop being dead?” John asked and he was shivering with post orgasmic chills, and he didn’t care that it was a dream, that he would wake up soon.

“Please –“ He added.

Sherlock smiled, brushing his lips  against his.

“Wake up, John – it was a magic trick – all of this, just a magic trick…” He said.

_Just a magic trick._

 

John didn’t open his eyes as he woke up. He never did – he always kept his eyes tightly shut waiting for the alarm to go off. He drew in a deep breath, feeling like it was a big waste of time. He could taste blood in his mouth, he swallowed.

Even that felt like a big waste of time – everything felt like one these days.

He dreamed of the fall, usually. Sometimes he got there in time, there were millions of steps that lead to the rooftop and he climbed them all – and he got there in time. Sherlock didn’t fall.

Sometimes he followed him down. He sort of liked those dreams.

Other times he was able to break Sherlock’s fall – but there were nights where Sherlock’s unseeing eyes bore through him and there was betrayal, disappointment, accusation in them.

But _that_ had never happened. He had never dreamed about Sherlock and him like _that._

They hadn’t been like that.

Sherlock was dead. Sherlock had killed himself and there had been tears in the man’s voice, genuine tears while they talked on the phone. Sherlock had been his best friend – and he was grieving – and grief always found new ways of rearing its ugly head and let him know that it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

He didn’t open his eyes, when he did he would have to get up from that bed, in that immaculate flat without knives and skulls on the mantelpiece, without experiments and microscopes on the kitchen’s table and body parts in the fridge. He would have a shower, when he got up, he would wash away the physical proofs of the dream he had just had, he would have breakfast, go out and get to work and pretend he wasn’t living in a monochrome world – a Sherlock-less world.

He had to exist in it. He had to – survive because that was what he was supposed to do. He was a soldier, he had gone to war and he had survived. But it had taken Sherlock to really save him.

Sherlock wasn’t there anymore.

He kept his eyes closed, letting images from his dream linger behind his closed lids.

Sherlock’s last words – the lie he had said that day – his kisses, the feeling of being skin to skin had felt so real. Maybe since Sherlock couldn’t even be arsed to haunt him as a ghost for not believing his lie, for still believing in him, he was doing the job himself, he was haunting himself – keeping his eyes closed and letting his mind wander, thinking about their life – how it would be like, now, had Sherlock not fallen and coming up with peculiar dreams.

People had gossiped, whispered, incorrectly inferred and assumed things about them and their relationship, there had been tabloids articles and blog posts about them – but they had not been like that between them. Hadn’t it?

He had found Sherlock attractive, but – he had not – felt – he wasn’t feeling anything more than friendship and hero worship for him because that bastard had been his hero until the very end.

He had regrets, of course, but – not about _that._ How could he?

He knew, though, that he would sell his soul, gladly, to have the chance to take back what he had told him that day. Their last true conversation shouldn’t have been _that._ There shouldn’t have been a last conversation at all. Sherlock should still be alive.

He would sell his soul not to have been blindsided by anger.

But that was about it, wasn’t it?

It had to be.

“God.” He said and his voice was hoarse with sleep (and tears in the back of his throat, even if he did not cry. He was not a crier, he had never been), “I hate you.” He said, still keeping his eyes closed and bloody hell, why could he still feel Sherlock’s kisses on his lips?

“I hate you more than anything.” He hissed.

It was a lie, of course.

John opened his eyes. The alarm must have gone off, but he hadn’t even heard it. He had to get up and pretend he was still a functional member of society.

There. He could lie too. See? It was that simple.

Just a trick. A magic trick.   

 

* * *

 

 

_He was a mess. That was the first thing Mary thought when she finally saw John Watson up close. Oh, not that she hadn’t known beforehand, because in order to acquire a target one always had to observe, to know, to be prepared, and she had done her homework._

_She had dodged Mycroft Holmes’ surveillance (grade three active, at least.) and had observed John Hamish Watson for a long time. She had thought she knew all she needed to know: John Watson woke up at precisely 5:55 a.m., five minutes before his alarm went off, on weekdays. He never got up  from his bed until five minutes after the alarm went off, though. He usually spent a few minutes in bed taking in big gulps of air or still keeping his eyes closed, a frown marring his brow, his fists clenched at his sides._

_Grief, panic, remorse. All to be expected, actually._

_He had a quick shower, followed by breakfast. He went to work, he was always ten minutes early for his shift. He worked, staying in his office during his lunch break (whatever the fuck he did during his lunch hour it stayed behind that closed door. Not that she cared.), he never stayed extra time unless it was absolutely necessary. He politely declined offers to go out in the evening with colleagues (of both genders)._

_He only met with a couple of friends of his once a week, alternating between the two men, because God forbid he dealt with more people than he necessarily had to._

_He drank at nights. Never enough that he might not be functional or have hangovers the day after, but enough that he often had to drag his sorry ass to bed swaying._

_He had nightmares, but as far she knew – and she really knew a lot – he didn’t remember them  in the morning or if he did, he pretended they never happened._

_The real clincher came at weekends, though: John Watson still woke up before his alarm clock went off. He stayed longer under the shower, indulging in either a cry, a wank or both (not necessarily in that order, she had soon learned.)_

_He never said a word, even while climaxing, but considering what he did, after, Mary had quite a clear idea of whose name was on his lips as he came._

_John took the tube and then walked, whether it was raining, snowing or it was hot and humid as fuck and went to the graveyard._

_Each week he walked like a soldier toward that black headstone: back ramrod straight, chin up, dry eyes, fists clenched and visited his friend’s grave. It didn’t matter how long he stayed: whether it was a few minutes to change the flowers and polish the headstone (yes, he really did that), or hours, he_ never _said a word. He just looked at that black headstone and blinked his eyes: the epitome of stiff upper lip and repressed feelings._

_For all she knew he might be confessing his undying love for the detective, and reciting all the lines of, “and Death Shall Have No Dominion”, “In Memoriam”, or perhaps he relived his last moments with Sherlock Holmes._

_She didn’t know, she didn’t particularly care anyway, but there had been times she had been tempted to just drop by and tell him the truth: Sherlock Holmes was alive, he was travelling the world and killing people. He killed people who had done nothing to him, people who just happened to be in the way. She had  never done that, of course. She was a professional. And petty revenge was not in the brochure._

_He was a mess. It was worse than she had expected.  She supposed that she should feel some sympathy for the man; after all she knew what grieving was like: it was consuming, it was a never ending cycle of heartbreak, of remorse and regrets, of recollections, of what ifs, of smiles that one couldn’t help feeling on their lips, even though they fucking hurt._

_She could respect John Watson’s grief: it was genuine, it was making him slowly crumble down, it was deconstructing him._

_She could respect the love John Watson had felt and was still feeling for Sherlock Holmes: it was all encompassing, it was tearing him apart._

_She could. If things were different, if she could be herself and John Watson were a different man. She might have shared her grief with him, told him how when she woke up, every single day,  for one blessed moment she didn’t remember, for one blessed second Alex was alive and they had started over, they had made it: they had got their second chance, their happily ever after and they were enjoying it. She couldn’t, though – they were_ not _different people. Sherlock Holmes had broken both their hearts._

_John Hamish Watson: medical doctor, decorated soldier, war hero, former companion and flatmate of Sherlock Holmes was a mess; he was too pale, had shadows under his eyes, a hint of tremor in his left hand (which he hid very well), he had heartbreak written all over his admittedly handsome face. And Mary knew that she could use it all; she wasn’t in the business of fair, after all._

_She had spent long weeks observing the man in front of him, she had studied him: his habits, his routine, his grief. She had adjusted her identity accordingly._

_The target was not acquired yet._

_She smiled and asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee, doctor?”_

_“What happened to Julia?” John Watson asked._

_He was broken. Almost a year and a half had passed  since his best friend had died and his grief  was still paralyzing him. He went through the motions and kept going only because he was a survivor, a soldier – and she could respect that. He was carrying his grief with dignity and she could respect that too._

_She was also pretty sure he was so deep in denial about_ why _he was still grieving for his best friend’s death that the truth might destroy him. And she didn't want that for the man in front of her. Oh, no – that was the very last thing she wanted or needed._

_She smiled and said, “It was Daisy, doctor, and she was sort of very pregnant from what I’ve been told.”_

_John blinked, he shook his head and said, “Right. right.”_

_“So?” She said arching her eyebrows. No flirting, it was too soon. But she could be friendly and  not be patronizing with him._

_“So?” John replied. He was clearly annoyed that he had to talk to some stranger. He was annoyed that he didn’t remember his own nurse’s name or had confused them._

_“Coffee? And perhaps I should also introduce myself,” She held out her hand, “Mary Morstan, doctor Watson.”_

_John shook her hand and for just one moment, the only she would allow herself to have, she felt genuinely sorry for the man in front of him: he was a good man, he was going through something she knew all too well and she was not heartless._

_Well, no! She was, actually. Her heart had been buried in a shallow grave, in the middle of nowhere and it had taken her days to find him._

_Her heart had given her the chance to start over, to escape, to survive – and he had died. He had been killed._

_Her heart, what little was left of it, was broken and she had no time or willingness to put it back together. There was no point._

_“Nice to meet you,” John said. “And yes, coffee, thank you!”_

_“Likewise. How do you take your coffee, doctor?” She asked, “Oh, by the way, Mr. Zaman canceled his appointment, he called right before you came.”_

_“Black. No sugar.” John said, “thank you – Mary.”_

_He had hesitated. But he had remembered her name._

_She smiled and said, “I won’t be a moment.”_

_“Thank you,” John  said, without looking at her, getting into his office._

_Target  was not acquired. Not yet._

_It was only her first day at the clinic, though – and she had time. John Watson had hit rock bottom, but she needed him to want to survive, he had to claw his way out of the pit of despair he was into._

_Sherlock Holmes needed to have someone to lose, something to lose when he came back (because he would. He had to. Even if she had to bomb London herself to force him to come back). Her job was to make sure that he did, that he would have all of that. The reason why she was still breathing was that she wanted to be the one who took everything away from Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

 

 

 

 

William got that he was screwed, completely screwed when he realised that he hadn’t lied to Joan. Granted, they had met at the hospital, at the A&E, where she had stitched him up, after a stupid domestic accident.

Later Joan would never let him live that down: an MI6 agent with a hole in the indent between his thumb and index finger caused by a bloody tuna tin. He had known he was screwed while she stitched his hand – and she would later tell him that she wasn’t even supposed to work at the A&E that night, she had traded places with a colleague who needed a favor.

William had known he was screwed because Joan’s skin had been perfect, her blonde hair was picked in a bun, she had looked exhausted, but William hadn’t been able to tear his eyes off of her.

He had never believed in love at first sight, he had thought it was all a bunch of bollocks, he had been sure he was immune to that, he had thought he was too jaded, too bitter, too hardened by what he had seen to fall in love.

 Facts had proven him wrong.

He had found out mere seconds after meeting her that she was immune to all his tactics, to his charm – she was _real_. She had been up for almost twenty-four hours when they had met, and she hadn’t looked exactly impressed with his tactics and his little tricks.

 When she had eventually said yes and agreed to go out on a date with him  William had been already aware that he was in love with her, he had been surprised, he had been – scared, but she had made him feel real, she had made him feel like he wasn’t just the guy who travelled the world and protected his country and didn’t even have a flat because he had spent the grand total of three months in London for the past decade.

He hadn’t lied to her – and the craziest thing of all was that Joan had believed him. She hadn’t looked impressed or scared, she hadn’t asked him any question, she had just enjoyed the evening with him.

They had talked about real things, she had told him that she had always wanted to be a doctor, ever since she was a kid – and he had told her that he absolutely didn’t imagine to become a civil servant while growing up.

“What did you want to be?” She had asked him. They had been almost – almost but not quite drunk – he had smiled and said, “I don’t know – I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit…” She had said, she had smiled and the tone of her voice – she had been flirting with him. She had touched her hair (it was not picked in a bun, it was long, loose on her shoulders ), played with her long locks while drinking beer.

It wasn’t a lie. He truly didn’t remember.

Since the very first day lying to Joan had been almost impossible. He had learned from experience that doing his job, in the capacity he did, and having a life was not possible, the two things didn't mix.

Joan was not frail, she was not a wilting flower and while they found a new flat and their things started to mingle and those walls became a home, their home, he sincerely thought that they could do it. He had thought that after a decade working on the field he could do something more stable, he thought that working office hours, analyzing data would let him have the best of both worlds: serve his country and be with the woman he loved.

It took ten minutes in an interrogation room to disabuse him of that dream.

He had been threatened before -- he had been physically harmed, he had seen innocent people die, good agents, friends being sacrificed for the greater good, but the minute that piece of scum had threatened Joan - not directly, it had been just an idle threat, almost a cliché, William had felt ice seeping through his veins. He understood that it didn't matter whether he would be sitting behind a desk because Joan would never be safe, that not only was she his pressure point -- but that he would not hesitate a moment in putting her before everything -- which put her even more at risk.

"I would never ask you to give up  your job for me. I am not that kind of person." Joan told him that night.

She was safe, in his arms, in their flat with mismatched furniture and guns hidden in every room. She was happy and tired and the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He couldn't lie to her, but she couldn't know the truth either: that he was terrified at the idea of losing her, that he couldn't risk finding out whether he would be willing to sacrifice her for the greater good because he already knew the answer: he couldn't, he wouldn't.

"I know," He said, "you never would, that's why I did it."

Joan had had a long shift at the hospital, she was tired, sleepy, smiling one of those smiles that meant, "bollocks, you're a rubbish liar!"

She had kissed his forehead instead and had mumbled a thank you against his lips.

He retired the day after.

Sherlock Holmes was in Pakistan, that day. He would get the names he needed and escape, leaving no witnesses behind.

John Watson would go to the clinic without noticing that he had people spying on him. One of them was Mary Morstan.

In an office in New York Mr. Neal was having an interesting conversation with a young man named Herman Bennett. He was a stray, refusing to believe that both Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes were dead.

He needed guidance .

 

* * *

 

 

“I heard you,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock had been at the graveyard that day. Sherlock had – heard him. John knew he should feel angry, and he supposed that he still was. It still hurt – but Sherlock had heard him.

 

_one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t ... be ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this._

 

He had come back.

Sherlock was alive; he was back and John’s mind still couldn’t entirely wrap itself around _that_. He had been afraid that he would forget Sherlock: the sound of his voice, the impossible hue of his eyes, the way he filled a room, bigger than life, the minute he entered it – and everything else paled, faded in the background. Things hadn’t changed, after all; he hadn’t forgotten a bloody thing, even as he was mad as hell, even if, for a moment, he had hated Sherlock for what he had done, for making him grieve, for breaking his heart.

He was too bloody happy to have him in his life again to care.

_I heard you._

He didn’t think he had ever heard that tone of voice coming from Sherlock. It sounded like an apology – a real apology. Did Sherlock hear everything? How close had he been that day?

There were journalists and paparazzi outside, there were their friends in their – no, Sherlock’s – sitting room. There were questions to which Sherlock would not give a definite answer, there was Mary – God, he had proposed to her, she was a good woman and she genuinely seemed to like Sherlock, which confused him because it had never happened.

And Sherlock had just taken the deerstalker, he used to hate that hat and yet he didn’t hesitate wearing it – and John’s world, his surroundings were starting to feel real again.

Sherlock was ready to be Sherlock Holmes again: the detective with the funny hat, the Reichenbach hero, the man so many people had believed in that his (fake) suicide had created a ripple effect that John couldn’t have foreseen. He wondered whether Sherlock had known, whether Mycroft had informed him that people had wanted the truth to be known, had wanted Sherlock’s name and reputation to be cleared.

It hadn’t seemed real, at the time – but then again nothing else had.

Sherlock, in that restaurant, had been the first real thing he had seen and felt for two years.

Sherlock’s face, the only thing he had been able to focus on, while still drugged as the man pulled him out from that bonfire (and later, almost a year later, he would see, would hear how frantic Sherlock had been, how he had walked through the fire for him, without second thoughts – and that image would haunt him as he went back to Mary doing what Sherlock had asked him to do).

Sherlock, in his bedroom, and it had been like the images, the scenarios he had indulged in every single day, even with Mary sleeping in his bed, except that it had been _better_ ; Sherlock had been smiling a real smile, and he thought he had smiled as well, and it had felt like time hadn’t passed, like they had deleted the past two years and John hadn’t cared about the people in the sitting room, he hadn’t cared about anything that wasn’t Sherlock walking toward him.

Journalists were asking questions and he wasn’t exactly listening to Sherlock’s words. He knew he would never tell the truth, he would give those vultures just enough to get them off his back.

Photographers were snapping pictures (and John would keep one of them, a newspaper clipping, in a drawer of his desk) and everything was finally, finally real. There wasn’t the ghost of blood on the pavement, of the lack of pulse on Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock was back. He was alive.

And so was John.

 

* * *

 

 

_That particular burner phone had been given to her by an old lady while she was riding in the tube. Mary had not expected to get a burner phone. Mr. Neal hadn’t told her anything and they were in a stage where radio silence was pivotal._

_It wasn’t her first undercover gig, but she had never gone in so deeply. From the moment Sherlock Holmes had dragged his ass back to London and had made contact with John Watson she had lived 24/7 as Mary Morstan._

_How Mr. Neal had recruited a sweet, harmless-looking old lady to give her the small package, with a dexterity that had frankly surprised her given the woman’s age was something Mary chose not to dwell on._

_John was with Sherlock, possibly staring at him or being passive aggressive at the man, not necessarily in that order, or they were solving a case (which would not forbid John to pine after his best friend and being still pissed at him anyway), she had told him that he should spend time with Sherlock, she had earned brownie points with both men and everything was going swimmingly. She also had an engagement ring, things were going exactly like planned – so, why did Mr. Neal want to talk to her?_

_She followed the instructions, it took her a while to find a suitable spot, without CCTV cameras and she double and triple checked that there weren’t any of Mycroft Holmes’ people following her, but eventually she found the place._

_It was fun and honestly she needed some fun, she needed to be herself – whoever the hell she was these days, even if it meant hiding in a stinking toilet stall in the middle of fucking nowhere._

_She dialed the number on the slip of paper she had been given and as she waited for the man to pick up she destroyed the paper._

_“Mary.” Mr. Neal said when he picked up the phone, “I know this is unexpected.”_

_“Is there a problem?” She asked. She was tempted to ask whether she had done something wrong, whether she had slipped up somehow without noticing. She had lived as Mary Morstan for years, that wasn’t the hard part. She actually liked to be a nurse, as cover identities went it could have been worse. She could pretend with John; it wasn’t hard –  she had had worse and John was, at heart, a good man; pretending with him wasn’t difficult; when they had met he had been so deep into grief and so desperate to stop hurting that entering his life had been easy and when she woke up with tears in her eyes, John bought it when she said it was about her family. He respected her grief._

_If she had to be totally, completely honest with herself – which was a luxury she could rarely afford nowadays – before Sherlock Holmes came back, before she actually met him she hadn’t been sure she could actually maintain her cover in his presence. Sure, she had had months to prepare herself, to remind herself over and over that it was just another job, another gig, but the truth was that she had feared her own reaction._

_She had found out that she could be in the same room with Sherlock Holmes, that she could smile at him, be friendly to him, eat in his sitting room, sit on his couch, share cabs with him, touch him – and she felt nothing, which had been the most surprising thing to her. There were other times, though, when everything came rushing back to her; it happened when she saw Sherlock trying to hide the fact (to John, mostly) that he was going to pieces._

_It happened when she saw that Sherlock Holmes, despite what John wrote in his blog and what Jim Moriarty’s groupies thought, could love – he loved his friends, he loved his brother (in their own way the brothers loved each other, which had been an interesting tidbit of information) and of course he loved John – those were the hardest moments for her, she had to rely on her training, on what the endgame was. It was hard to pretend and go on when she saw the way he pined after John thinking that he had killed Alex in order to come back to that man._

_She hadn’t slipped up, though – so she didn’t ask Mr. Neal whether she had done something wrong._

_“It depends on the perspective. I see an opportunity, but that depends entirely on you.” Mr. Neal said._

_Mary sighed. Mr. Neal wasn’t usually so cryptic._

_“Mr. Neal, I’m in a public restroom, there are junkies outside and I’m supposed to be home cooking dinner for my fiancée, if you could please get to the point?” Mary said._

_Mr. Neal could be a scary man and since his reach had extended, since he had gotten more powerful she should perhaps pay more attention to her words, but she was past the point of being careful with words. Mr. Neal needed her and they both knew that._

_She heard Mr. Neal’s sigh and then the man said, “Sorry about the vagueness, Mary.”_

_“Get to the point!” Mary repeated._

_Mr. Neal sighed again and Mary didn’t like that sound. Something had happened._

_“You talked about perspective.” Mary said, “what do you mean?”_

_“Someone is  making enquiries about your past. An interested party.” Mr. Neal said._

_“Who is digging and why?” She asked. She wasn’t afraid, she wasn’t even worried. If push came to shove she would kill Sherlock Holmes and be done with it – she was in it, in Mr. Neal’s scheme, for that reason, after all._

_“Charles Augustus Magnussen.” Mr. Neal said._

_“Oh…” She said. Charles Augustus Magnussen was a sleaze and was pretty much untouchable. He owned people, he blackmailed them – he was a very dangerous man._

_And Mr. Neal had talked about it being an opportunity. How?_

_“In which way is this an opportunity, Mr. Neal?” Mary asked._

_“As I said it depends entirely on you, Mary: I can make it impossible for him to find out more_ or _we can use this. Him.” Mr. Neal said. When she didn’t reply he said, “Think about it: why would a man like him dig on your past?”_

_It took her a moment to connect the dots and when she did she rested her back against the wall. There was only one reason for Magnussen to dig for dirt on her: Sherlock or possibly Mycroft Holmes. That was his modus operandi, after all; he found pressure points and used them to get what he wanted._

_“Are you still there?” Mr. Neal asked._

_“Yeah – still here.” She replied. She ran a hand through her hair, her heartbeat was steady and so were her hands, she supposed she should feel something, but she was mostly annoyed._

_“It’s up to you, Mary –“ Mr. Neal said._

_Mary knew that Mr. Neal was partially talking out of his ass; true, he had gotten powerful but he was_ not _that powerful. Not even he could make her past disappear; but if she knew him and his way of thinking, and she did, she was sure that they could use it to their own advantage._

_“I suppose you already have a plan?” She said. It came out as a question, but she knew he probably did. He always had contingency plans already in motion._

_“Yes.” Mr. Neal replied. He didn’t add anything else. He disconnected the call and Mary stared at the phone for a couple of seconds before starting to disassemble it._

_Mr. Neal had indeed a plan – which would reach its climax the night Sherlock Holmes shot Charles Augustus Magnussen to protect John Watson_

_It would take months and a lot of effort – it would be the most dangerous thing Mary would ever do: a double bluff while having Sherlock plan her wedding to John._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 When asked about John Watson’s wedding by his colleagues, Greg Lestrade would say that it had been nice and interesting. He would tell that Sherlock had been unusually nice (thus winning a betting pool about how things would go down at the reception), that he hadn’t embarrassed the groom and the bride too much, that he hadn’t made anyone cry (that would be a lie, of course. But people at the Yard didn’t need to know that Sherlock Holmes had moved people to tears with his speech, it was none of their bloody business anyway), that yes, there had been an attempted murder at the reception and _yes_ , Sherlock had solved the mystery – when did he not? – that the culprit had been apprehended and that the rest of the day had gone on swimmingly.

There were things he would not say, though.

There were things his colleagues didn’t need to know, because it was none of their business and Sherlock was his friend.

He would not tell a soul about the best man’s speech, he would not tell anyone that Sherlock had asked for his help because he hadn't had the first clue about what to say in his speech, and Greg had only told him that he ought to tell the truth, to tell the good and the embarrassing stories about John, about their adventures together.

He would not tell about what he had overheard (not on purpose, he had wanted to go and help) Sherlock saying outside  Major Sholto’s door while trying to convince him to open that door and let John help him.

_Of course one should, but not at John’s wedding. We wouldn’t do that, would we – you and me? We would never do that to John Watson._

Sherlock had not only solved the mystery – he had also helped to save a life. And maybe he had been bluffing, he was a good actor, Greg had learned the hard way that Sherlock could deceive and manipulate and one would never get a clue about it until it was too late – but he had believed him.

His colleagues didn’t need to know that, they didn’t need to know a bloody thing, come to think of it.

He would say if asked, that John and Mary’s first dance had been lovely (and it was the truth) but he would then stop at that.

Because things, after that got – weird.

In a good way – or messy and completely unexpected.

One moment he was dancing with one of the bridesmaids and a moment later Molly Hooper who could look pretty even while wearing that yellow dress (the fact that the first adjective that came to his mind had not been _pretty,_ but _beautiful_ , was something he only realized later) and looking worried had come to him, asking him to go outside with her.

And he hadn’t even been surprised that her worry had been for Sherlock, maybe there had been a tiny hint of jealousy – but that realization too would come later, when he thought back about that night. She had asked him to follow her outside and he had complied because it was Sherlock – and they were friends, they had become a family and John had just gotten married, it wasn’t fair to dump that on him.

“What about Tom?” Greg had asked.

Molly had shrugged her shoulders – and perhaps she had come to the conclusion that moving on was a hard thing to do when you cried while hearing the waltz that Sherlock Holmes had composed for his best friend’s wedding.

And he kept repeating himself that it was none of his business, that they were his friends and he should keep his nose clean, that things were complicated enough as they were.

They got outside and they both shivered at the cold night. If someone had ever told him that Sherlock could plan a wedding to the last detail, including the fairy lights outside, in the garden, he would have laughed and said that there was no way Sherlock could ever give a toss about things like those.

He would have been wrong.

God, he would have been _so_ wrong.

They walked in silence and Greg wanted to take off his jacket and give it to Molly who was hugging her own arms and he couldn’t understand why on Earth he wasn’t doing so.

They were friends, weren’t they? They had known each other for a long time, they had started meeting for coffee almost every day, he had seen her elbow deep in cadavers and, at the same time, discussing about tv programmes she liked or what to have for dinner.

He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity (and why could he almost hear Sherlock say something nasty about what a moron he was?) and took off the jacket, making Molly start when he touched her shoulder to stop her.

Molly’s skin was warm, despite the fact that she was shivering, it was soft – and somehow he had imagined her skin it would be so soft, and when or how or why he had imagined Molly’s skin and how soft it was, was something he didn’t want to dwell on.

Not there.

Molly looked at him, a frown of confusion on her face, and she actually blushed when he draped his jacket over her shoulders.

She smiled and shook her head and kept looking around. He wondered what had happened, why she wasn’t outside with Tom, he wondered whether she really wanted to look for Sherlock or had needed – a friend with her.

Because that was his role, wasn’t it? He was Molly’s friend.

“I didn’t notice him leaving –” Molly said and there was a hint of genuine surprise in her voice as she said those words.

“He’s Sherlock – you know how he is,” Greg said.

It was how he always replied to people who complained about the man’s habits. He was Sherlock Holmes, he didn’t give a toss about rules and if he wanted to disappear, if he didn’t want to be found, no one would be able to.

“I –“ Molly trailed, “I never really apologized to you, did I?” She said, and he was pretty sure that it wasn't what she had meant to say at first. And Greg noticed the way she wasn’t looking at him, how his own jacket looked good on her and how he was feeling more relaxed than he had for hours.

“For what?” He asked. It took him a moment to understand what she was apologizing for  and when he did he shook his head, “There is no need to.” He said.

She wanted to apologize for lying to him about helping Sherlock with faking his suicide.

Molly tilted her head down, “I’m sorry, though.” She said.

He wanted to tell her that it was okay, that he understood – and he did, he really did. He would have done the same. He had not taken it personally.

Greg smiled. Which was stupid since she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking straight ahead of her, and he couldn’t stop staring at her like a perfect idiot. That Molly Hooper was an attractive woman was not a surprise, that she was a good person, with a good heart, was something he had known for a long time, but that night, in that garden, it was like he was looking at her, really looking at her for the first time – and she was breathtaking.

“I will drop by his flat later –“ He said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. It hadn’t been an awkward silence because there weren’t awkward silences between good friends who had known each other for years. The silence between them had been warm and Greg, well, he was not stupid. He knew what his role was. He knew what his boundaries were.

Molly looked at him and smiled. They resumed their walk and Greg didn’t want to go back inside, he didn’t want to see the happy couple chatting or dancing, he didn’t want to drink and dance with any of the bridesmaids (even if that was what he’d tell he had done to his colleagues, when asked.), he wanted to stay there, in the garden, with Molly.

Because – there were stars in the sky and she was wearing his jacket and she looked stunning and he wanted to keep looking at her.

“I like this song…” Molly whispered.

Right. There was a wedding party going on inside, people were dancing and the DJ had started with slow songs.

“Well –“ Greg trailed.

There was a moment where Greg could see how things would go if they got right back inside. He would end up forgetting, or pretending to, how warm Molly's skin was, how beautiful she had looked just moments before....

And he couldn't have that. Just that once he didn’t want to be the selfless friend.

"Shall we?" He asked holding out a hand to her.

Molly smiled. And for a moment he thought that maybe she didn't want to get back inside either.

Molly took his hand and Greg ...He would never, ever, say that they slow danced to the notes of one of Adele's songs.

_I dare you to let me be your, your one and only_

_I promise I'm worthy_

_To hold in your arms_

_So come on and give me the chance_

_To prove I am the one who can walk that mile_

_Until the end starts_

He would never tell that for almost six minutes he held Molly in his arms.

He would not realise, until months later, that all his rationality, all the ways he had tried to remind himself that he was supposed to be just a friend, that he knew his boundaries had become pretty much a moot point the minute he had held Molly in his arms.

 

* * *

 

 

The fact that John Watson was out of the room, with his wife, the same woman who had shot his brother to the chest and whose past  they still hadn’t uncovered, and not for lack of trying, wasn’t sitting well with Mycroft Holmes.

The fact that Mary Morstan was still alive, free to visit the hospital wasn’t sitting well with Mycroft Holmes as well, especially that night.

Names held a lot of power, therefore he ignored the fake name Mary had given them in that U.S.B. drive and addressed her with the one she had chosen.

The only reason that woman was alive was his brother. He had asked him – no, more like _ordered_  (and blackmailed and resorted to call their mother to intercede for him for good measure) to give him time.

Unlike what Sherlock might think, he did _care_ about his brother. If he wanted to be brutally honest with himself – and self deception was something useless and dangerous, therefore he rarely, if ever, indulged in it, he had never been able to deny his little brother anything. It was his weakness. Sherlock _was_ his pressure point as Charles Augustus Magnussen had so eloquently put it.

The first time he had met John Watson he had been surprisingly candid about it: he worried about Sherlock, constantly. John Watson had not known Sherlock that well, he had not known him – he had no idea about the depths Sherlock could fall into. John Watson had been fascinated by his brother’s intellect, by the thrill that came with seeing the battlefield with him. He still hadn’t known about the rest, though. He hadn’t known about the track marks on his brother’s arms. He hadn’t known how he had lost himself in drugs, in mindless, artificial paradises in order to escape –

Sherlock would have said boredom. And he would pretend he believed him, he would say something appropriately dismissive and that would be the end of it.

Sherlock had sought drugs as a form of escapism, that was not a complete lie, but he had also needed it for other reasons.

“I shouldn’t have come back.” Sherlock mumbled, half in French, half in Serbian. He was keeping his eyes closed, Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure he was aware of what he was saying or the fact that he hadn’t spoken in English.

He did not regret the actions taken to defeat Moriarty; he did not regret Sherlock being used a blunt instrument to pluck out (the unworthy) the threads of James Moriarty’s net. It had been necessary and Sherlock was the only person who could have accomplished that.

Or so he told himself, day in and day out.

“You should have left me in Serbia.” Sherlock added.

Being maudlin was not a concept foreign to Sherlock. But that? That went beyond his usual flair for drama.

_Do you ever think there is something wrong with us?_

_Look at them. They all care so much._

When Sherlock was a child he had been extremely bright: he had been wild, curious and _innocent_. Mycroft didn’t think he had ever shared that trait with his younger brother. He had not envied that innocence, though because even at a young age Mycroft had known that it came with a price. One that even then he hadn’t been willing to pay.

Sherlock instead had lived in a world where everything was possible: being a scientist, a philosopher, an explorer, a pirate, a dragon slayer.

Sherlock’s heart made him vulnerable: his brother had never learned how to protect himself, how to put a limit to what he was willing to do for the people he loved. And he _did_ love. He loved intensely, he loved with his mind first and foremost and then came all the rest.

He had tried to protect him. He had tried to shield him because unlike him Mycroft didn’t remember ever being innocent, ever believing in fairy tales and dragons and dramatic things like his brother did.

He did not reply to his brother’s words. What was he supposed to tell him anyway? He might not have the heart of a dragon slayer or a pirate, but he did have one – and bringing him out from that dungeon in Serbia had been the only choice he had. He had used the perfect excuse too: a potential terrorist attack to London, but hadn’t it been there, he would have created one himself.

He had not been there for him in Chicago or Istanbul. He had learned of the facts afterwards.

When the intel had come, when the news had broken that his brother had been captured in Serbia, that he was being _questioned_ , there had not been doubts, he had not had the time to properly think. There had been other things to do.

He had learned Serbian – and it had taken him longer than what he was accustomed to because he had been _worried_ , because their intel had told him they had a narrow window of time before Sherlock got tortured to death.

What was he supposed to reply to his brother? He would not listen to reason. He did not want _that._

“I killed people,” Sherlock said. He knew that tone of voice. Sherlock was retreating back to his mind palace, he was – unable to cope, at the moment. And John was with his wife, where he didn’t belong.

Mycroft Holmes was very tired. He was also furious. But anger and rest and any other feeling he might feel would have to wait.

“You did what you had to.” Mycroft said. He could reply to that. He knew that Sherlock didn’t feel guilty about the people he had killed while away. He was _not_ stupid. His brother was anything but.

“Yet I let him – hurt me. Why?” Sherlock said. His voice was soft, and Mycroft couldn’t help thinking about the child Sherlock had been. How he had not understood people, how easily he had been hurt because he never fit in.

_Why?_

He used to ask why all the time: it was his favorite word. Until he stopped asking – until he stopped wondering why he was always the freak, the creep, the weird kid with morbid habits who saw too much and couldn't shut up about what he saw.

He didn’t have an answer to Sherlock’s question. He had wondered himself whatever had happened that had forbidden Sherlock to defend himself. All his theories, some of which he had discussed with John during the long hours before they finally found his brother, clashed with the reality of what had happened, of what Herman Bennett had done to his brother.

Sherlock let out a breath: it wasn’t a sigh, it was – anguish, it was everything he hadn’t allowed himself to express while John Watson had been there, with him.

“I can’t feel my own skin –“ Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to him.

Mycroft shifted closer to Sherlock.

When Sherlock had killed Magnussen, in front of dozens of witnesses, Mycroft had been scared. How could he protect his little brother from that? How could he circumnavigate the law when the act had been so blatant? They had had a contingency plan, a good plan, which would have given them more results, which would have neutralized both Charles Augustus Magnussen and Mary Watson.

Sentiment. _Bloody_ sentiment! Sherlock had accused him once of not being able to deal with a broken heart – which was true. Neither of them could, neither of them had even learned how to. He had no clue how to deal with the current situation, how to help his brother.

It was not the attack. Sherlock had always been cavalier about his own health, he doubted things would change. It was not even the _rape_ in itself, he thought, as he schooled his features not to grimace at the word, at what it meant, in case Sherlock opened his eyes. That was – terrible, of course, but it was just the last of a series of events that had hurt his brother.

Sherlock – was _not_ fine. He had not been fine for a long time. He had ceased to be whole a long time before and the events of the past few years had hurt him, in ways he had not anticipated, they had widened the cracks that had been already there. 

“Why did you fall if you had to fail? Why do you get to come back? You fall and fail and we bled for you.” Sherlock mumbled, quickly, over and over. He opened his eyes, and had Mycroft been a different person, a better man, perhaps, his eyes would have probably filled with tears looking at his brother.

He was desperate. He was – no – he refused to even entertain the possibility that he might be broken. He wasn’t. Not his brother, not under his watch. Not again.

“Did I fail?” Sherlock asked looking at him. For a moment his brother looked at him like he used to when they were kids and Sherlock thought he could do no wrong, that he had all the answers.

“Was I good, Mycroft?”

“No. You didn’t.” Mycroft replied. And he wished he was indeed an iceman, that he could indeed be the cold hearted bastard who would have sold his brother out in exchange for information.

He wasn’t. God forgave him, he truly wasn’t.

“You didn’t. You need to remember that.” Mycroft said. He was not – that. He was not the person who could offer Sherlock comfort. Their roles, a lifetime of little and huge wars between them, their upbringing forbade him to be a nurturer.

That was John Watson’s role.

“I have Moriarty’s name on my chest. He cut me thirty two times. He made me count while he did it. How did I not fail?”

“Jim Moriarty is dead.” Mycroft said, “Herman Bennett is just –“

“A man. Moriarty’s legacy, his myth endures. So, tell me, how did I not fail?” Sherlock said.

“You are alive.” Mycroft said. And Sherlock turned his head on a side hearing the hitch in his voice.

He had survived the fall. He had survived leaving the United Kingdom, he had survived the first trip which had brought him to Africa, he had survived chases, attempts at his life, torture. He had survived those 480 minutes in the hands of a serial killer clearly obsessed with him.

He was alive.

“I –“ Sherlock hesitated, “I don’t want pain killers. But I wouldn’t oppose to something to sleep. I need to sleep. I –“

That he could do. He could at least give him that. He could make sure that nothing happened to him from that moment on.

“Are you sure?” He asked. It was his job to do that. It was his job to play devil’s advocate and let Sherlock rest that night before John Watson came back.

“I shall not relapse, brother mine.” Sherlock said, a hint of himself in his voice. That was good, he could work with that. 

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Mycroft replied dryly, as he already pressed the nurse button.

“He will go back with Mary.” Sherlock said right after the nurse (who had been vetted by his staff, he would take no further risks) injected something into his IV. He sounded resigned.

Mycroft smiled. It would be futile to try and reason with Sherlock. It would be frankly ridiculous to warn him about caring at that point. It was too late. Sometimes he wished John Watson had been a different man: one who’d have taken the money he had offered him, who’d get scared of Sherlock and run away, like others had done before.

How simpler things would have been for all of them. John Watson, though, had not accepted the money, he had been already loyal to Sherlock and despite his abysmal error in judgement when he had married Mary Morstan, he still was.

No. John would not leave with his wife.

Sherlock was asleep, now. For a little while, until his R.E.M. cycle began, he would be at peace.

It was time, perhaps, that he had a chat with John Watson.

But first, he had to read the medical chart. He had deduced what had happened to Sherlock, Gregory Lestrade had told him a few things, but he needed to read what, exactly, Herman Bennett had done to his brother – and decide how the punishment would fit the crime.

 

 

* * *

 

 

          ~ _Now_ ~

 

 

It was as clear as day that John Watson was hiding something. Even if he hadn’t had access to the data from his mobile phone, even if he hadn’t known about the text he had received roughly around the same time the vehicle transporting Mary Morstan to a government facility had been ambushed, it would have taken but a look to know that the blonde man was hiding something.

The fact that Sherlock seemed completely oblivious of what was going on would have worried Mycroft Holmes generally. He was worried, but Sherlock’s blindness as far as John Watson was concerned, his absolute, implicit trust in his partner, was perhaps the best asset he currently had.

He had been – distracted. To his chagrin, he had to admit that he had looked at the parts and not the whole. That he had failed to see the whole picture, that it had taken Mary’s kidnapping to finally make him observe things was unacceptable. Sentiment was _not_ an excuse – but it had been the cause for his temporary blindness. He had not gone sooner to Baker Street because he had taken his time to re-examine each and every event that had happened since Moriarty’s message in January.

The text John Watson had received had been just another piece of that large puzzle that had finally clicked into place. Those people had made their move and they were leaving John with no real choice except that – doing what they had asked.

And he would do that, Mycroft read it in the man’s eyes as he gave the news of Mary’s kidnapping. He saw hints, just tiny hints, of his inner turmoil but he ignored them.

He was worried about Sherlock, but then again he was always worried about his brother and that was rather the problem, wasn’t it? He had been so busy worrying about his brother that he had overlooked anything else.

A few months before, right before Sherlock went to see Charles Augustus Magnussen, he had told him that losing him would break his heart. It had been a moment of complete honesty only partially due to the spiked punch he was supposed to drink. It had been true then and it still was – and that was rather the point, wasn’t it? That had been the reason for his inability to observe.

Which, he strongly suspected, had been one of those people’s goals all along. He had been played. It didn’t often happen, but when it did Mycroft Holmes always made sure that the people who succeeded in playing him regretted it. And that was his intention at the moment.

He was fully aware that there would be consequences for his actions. He was fully aware of the fact that Sherlock would not accept what he had in mind. He was supposed to protect John Watson, not to use him as bait. He was supposed to protect the most important person in Sherlock’s life, not allowing John Watson to be a martyr.

 

_You are alive, so it doesn’t really matter._

_I willingly fell into a trap, I walked into it knowing what it would come after. I needed a name. I knew that there would be pain – and I was positive I was prepared to endure it. I did endure it, I obtained the name I needed, the name I came to Chicago for._

 

Sherlock and John were watching the CCTV footage that had conveniently caught most of what had happened a few hours earlier to Mary Morstan. He observed the closeness between the two men – both physical (Sherlock had actually slept, for a change. Apparently sexual release had a good effect on his brother) and emotional.

He didn’t care. He couldn’t.

Caring would not help Sherlock. It would not save his brother, it would not help defeating the people who had used Sherlock as a distraction.

It would not help John Watson either.

Sacrificing John Watson, allowing him to do what was asked of him – was necessary.

Sherlock would not forgive him, he would give him yet another reason to resent him, perhaps to hate him, but Mycroft could not afford the luxury to care about it. 

Sherlock had written a long letter to John Watson describing the events that had taken place in Chicago. Sentiment had been hard to ignore – it had seeped through each line. If he had known, at the time, the depth of both his brother’s feelings and John Watson’s he would have employed another kind of strategy.

 Sherlock had written everything down in that letter: what had happened, why it had happened and how he had freed himself and obtained the information he needed.

 

_I am not proud of myself. I naively believed that I could tear down Moriarty’s web using only my intellect. It is my best weapon, but I found out that it is not the only one. I obtained the information I had been looking for, but it came with a price, I am afraid._

_Don’t misunderstand me: the three men who spent some merry hours cutting me up and clumsily trying to torture me were criminals, I won’t lose any sleep over their deaths. I regret what came after, though._

Sherlock was watching the video again. John, though, was looking at him. Mycroft was holding the man’s gaze. John suspected that he knew. John did not care, he knew, he expected him not to intervene, not to care.

That was his role after all, wasn’t it? He was the iceman, he was the uncaring, rubbish big brother, the overbearing presence in Sherlock Holmes’ life.

He was a rational man, he was used to making choices and sacrificing people for the greater good. Because the matter of the fact was not that those people wanted to hurt Sherlock or destroy him.

The matter of the fact was that they had used his little brother as distraction  while gaining power in the background. It was a power play: using Moriarty’s name, the murders of people who bore a resemblance to his brother, the kidnappings – it was just the tip of the iceberg – and he had been too busy, too worried to really notice. 

He was ashamed that he had not understood that earlier. He was ashamed that sentiment had clouded his judgment. It would not happen again, though. It couldn’t.

He met John’s eyes, there were still tendrils of fear (for Sherlock), but he saw the bravery of the soldier in the man’s stance. He had told him, during their first meeting, that bravery was a synonym for stupidity.

John Watson was _not_ a stupid man – but his was his job to make sure that his bravery would not cost him his life. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The images were clear – Sherlock was on his third viewing of the few seconds that had been caught on camera: the vehicle Mary was riding in, escorted by four men, had been ambushed  on the way to the facility where she would be held until the baby was born. The impact had been calculated not to kill the people on the passenger seat. The people who had come out from the black van had acted quickly, they were clearly used to similar kind of operations: they had killed the four agents and taken Mary.

Mary had been handcuffed, she had been bleeding, but she still had tried and fought the men. She hadn’t looked particularly scared, but then again he had realised the day before that Mary was not scared of anything at the moment.

It had all happened very quickly – and Sherlock could deduce hundreds of things about the men who had taken Mary, about the van, but it would be useless. He would think later about the hundreds of useless details he had deduced, he would think that he had deduced everything but what really counted.

Mycroft had not said a word since he had given them the news of Mary’s kidnapping and the video of what had happened. Mary – was important, for different reasons than Janine or Victor or Molly. And she had been taken – just a few weeks before the baby was due.

There was more, though. Mycroft was hiding something – and John – John hadn’t even looked at the video – not really. He had stood close to him, and Sherlock supposed that he should be the one trying to comfort John, trying to be close to him, to reassure him – wasn’t that what partners were supposed to do?

 He could not ask John whether he was alright. He clearly wasn’t. He couldn’t promise him that they would find Mary before anything happened to her or the baby or both. Mycroft had told him that MI5 was already working on that – because four agents, four of his men had just been killed. Mycroft was – cross. Mycroft was hiding something from him, and it wasn’t just the contents of his briefcase.

“I think that’s enough for now, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, stopping him before he could watch the footage again.

Sherlock looked at him: there had been a contingency plan – there had been strategies involving Mary; her child (John’s daughter) was supposed to be safe. He had promised John that. He had given his word that they would try and save his daughter’s life.

Mycroft talked, he explained briefly that, according to the surveillance in Mary’s flat, the woman had gone willingly, she had cooperated.

“She told us that she would try and cut a deal with you if we had her arrested,” John said.

Sherlock looked at John. He seemed calm, composed. He was pale. He had not had any rest. They had been still in bed when Mycroft had come, bringing them the news of Mary’s kidnapping.

Mycroft had waited a few hours before he had given them the news and he had refused to explain the reason why he hadn’t alerted them right away.

Mycroft smiled, “Ah, yes.” He leveled John with one of the coldest gazes  he had ever seen Mycroft direct at another human being and said, “I would not have been interested.”

But he was lying. In the past, he had been sincere when he had told him he wouldn’t have cut any deal with Mary Morstan – what had changed?

“What did they leave on the scene?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft was still looking at John – and Sherlock did not like the way he was looking at him; he knew that kind of look: cold, inquisitive, predatory. He had had that look in his eyes in the weeks before Jim Moriarty’s trial. And after – when they had been on a tarmac, together, before Sherlock left England, the day after his own funeral.

 “They left a box on the scene,” Mycroft said.

John’s left hand twitched, Sherlock noticed, and if things were different, he would perhaps cover the man’s hand with his own, he would try and show some support, he would try to be a good, supportive partner. Before he could act on what his instinct told him to do, John moved away from the table and said, “I need some coffee.”

He left the sitting room and went to the kitchenette and Sherlock didn’t remember ever feeling so powerless or useless.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“Yes. A box. I heard you, Mycroft.” Sherlock said.

Mycroft opened his briefcase and took a white box from it, handing it to him: it was larger than the black box found on Janine’s legs and it had no padlock.

“Open it,” Mycroft said.

“What for?” Sherlock asked, “It's more of the same, isn’t it?”

 Yet he was already opening the box- because they were playing, they had been playing for weeks and John was in the kitchen making coffee and he realised that he had refused to meet his eyes ever since Mycroft had arrived.

They were playing and they were, once again, steps ahead of him.

 There were pictures inside that white box. He was in all the pictures – with Mary, Molly, John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. He observed the picture with  Mary for a second: he noticed how she was indulgently smiling at something he had been saying (appearances could be indeed deceiving, he had believed she was a friend. He had cared about her), he blinked his eyes before sorting through the other pictures – all except for the last one had been taken since his return to London. He had known he had been spied on, that was nothing new, neither was the fact that the people depicted in those images were important to him. Why were they being redundant?

The last picture was different, though. It was an old picture; he had always hated having pictures taken, even when  he was younger, but he had made an exception in that instance.

He had wondered why Victor would want to have a picture of them since he wanted to keep their relationship a secret. Nevertheless, he had complied, he had smiled while Victor looped his arm around his shoulders, their body language, for once, revealing the true nature of their relationship.

He could see that the picture had been touched a lot through the years, that it had been kept in a drawer – and he was sure that Victor had had that picture. He had destroyed the few mementos of their relationship still in his possession shortly after Victor had left. He had been high, most probably  both on cocaine and morphine (a delicious cocktail he had discovered not long after he had started with cocaine.).

He put the picture among the others and as John came back from the kitchenette he saw what was on the bottom of the box: it was yet another  box, a small black one, with a digital  padlock on it.

“Is there a note?” John asked. He handed tea both to Mycroft and to him – he was still avoiding his gaze and Sherlock wanted Mycroft gone. He wanted to look at John properly, deduce what was going on in his mind because there was something he was missing. John was not mad at him, he was not blaming for what had happened, nevertheless, he was hiding something from him. He knew that John could be a good liar if the situation warranted it, but he knew John’s tells.

“No, there isn’t,” Sherlock replied. John nodded as he sorted through the pictures on the table.  He blinked his eyes while looking at some of the pictures (the one with Mary and  one of the two of them together, taken only days before they had found Jason Miller’s body in that basement), he took the picture with Victor in his hands for a moment, still without looking at him, but didn’t say anything – and for the first time since Sherlock had met him, he couldn’t say what John was thinking. He deduced myriads of thoughts, of tidbits, but not what John was thinking.

“I suppose the black box is a message in itself,” John said. There was coldness in his voice, resolve in his eyes – and something else he could not identify; John still wasn’t looking at him and for the first time since they had met he was actively trying to hide something from him. He would think later that it had been obvious, that he should have seen and understand – but he didn’t.

He didn’t see – he didn’t observe – he didn’t understand.

And he didn’t even have the chance to try and talk to John because _obviously_ the game was on, things were moving and Greg Lestrade (who had spent the night sleeping on Molly’s couch and didn’t look as exhausted as he had the day before) came to the flat  with the news that Janine’s killers had been apprehended.

“How convenient.” Sherlock only said.

 

 

 

  It was the sound of an incoming text that woke William Moore up. In the end he had crashed – apparently, his body _had_ forgotten how to run on fumes. The woman, whose name he was sure it wasn’t what Sherlock Holmes had given him in his text, had indeed a lot of connections, she knew how to get answers, and despite wearing jeans, a white shirt, and trainers, he had noticed right away the diamond earrings and the perfectly manicured hands.

Those details hadn’t been a mistake from the woman, she was too – _clever_ not to pay attention to such things. He couldn’t say he particularly cared about that woman or her reasons for helping him – or Sherlock Holmes. She _was_ helping him, that was all that mattered at the moment. He would have the time to find out about the woman when he went back. He had suspicions about the woman’s identity, but he had decided to let them slide.

He could smell coffee brewing; the motel room where they had met came with a coffee machine, two beds, and a small bathroom. The woman had been already there when he had got into that room – they had started to work right away; the woman had used mostly her mobile phone, sent texts as she read the file about Mary Morstan.

He put his glasses on and took his mobile phone from his jeans’ pockets. The woman was looking at him, drinking coffee, cocking a delicate eyebrow at him. He doubted she had got any sleep, but she didn’t look tired, he doubted she had slept while he kipped on the bed.

The text was from Sherlock: Mary Morstan had been kidnapped. The woman got close to his bed as he sent a text to Sherlock asking him for instructions. He was supposed to be in London, he was supposed to find out more about the people who were responsible for Joan’s kidnapping, but he wasn’t really surprised by Sherlock’s immediate reply:

 

_Stay exactly where you are, William._

_I’ll be in touch._

_SH_

“Well,” The woman said, “that is quite a coincidence.”

William looked at the woman: he wasn’t surprised that she had read his text, he wasn’t even sure that keeping his mobile in the pocket of his jeans might have stopped her if she had wanted to pry into his business.

“Of course, I don’t really believe in coincidences.” The woman continued, “Coffee is ready, shall we get back to work?”

William nodded, while he replied to Sherlock’s text. Joan had sent him a text, just a few words to tell him that security around her had doubled and that she had cut down on painkillers.

He couldn’t help a smile at the last words of the text, even if he was aware of the fact that the woman was still looking at him.

The woman handed him a stack of files, but she smiled at him and asked, “So, who is the lucky lady?”

William stared at the woman; she reminded him a little of Sherlock Holmes, in the way she seemed to read right through him, in her bright intelligence.

The woman shook her head and sat on her bed, opening a folder, her mobile phone in her hand.

“Where were we?” The woman said. William looked at her, as he was starting to sort through his files. He had no doubts she didn’t need a reminder, nevertheless, he said, “we were still cross-referencing our respective sources.”

“Right…” She said, “I’ll make some phone calls, then, shall I?”

William nodded absentmindedly as he looked through the files: there was a memo, handwritten, signed by Mycroft Holmes.

“What was it,” The woman asked, “Cleveland?”

William looked at the woman and handed her the memo, saying, “Chicago. Let’s check Chicago, first.”

 

 

 

That was a game Sherlock was very good at playing: sitting down in an interrogation room and observing suspects and culprits, deducing each and every detail about them, in silence. He had seen how unsettling his gaze could be; he had experienced, more than once, how utter silence could be unnerving to some people.

The two men sitting in front of him were different, though. Oh, they were guilty: CCTV cameras, fingerprints and DNA left no doubts about their involvement in Janine’s death. They had killed the woman.

And yet…

They were professionals: they had both received military training, they were highly trained, Janine’s murder wasn’t their first hit – it was the first job they had done together, most probably, but that was another matter that would possibly be helpful later. What it mattered at the moment was that neither man was an amateur and yet they had both made mistakes when _everything_ about them told him the magnitude of their discipline, of their abilities and competence.

The solution was, therefore, simple: they had wanted to be caught.  They had known they would be in that room with him, that day.

Their behavior wasn’t that different than Herman Bennett’s once he had been caught: foolishly calm, self-assured, cocky.  Herman Bennett had not cared about being caught. The four men who had kidnapped Joan had put up a fight, of course, once he had found them, but they hadn’t been surprised either.

The capture of the two men sitting in front of him had been _convenient_. He had followed Lestrade to Scotland Yard, John right beside him (too pale, too silent, still avoiding his gaze whenever possible), agents Drake and Harris shadowing them, as always for the past few weeks – not that it would make any difference if they truly meant to hit them, as what had happened to Mary had proven.

He had spent long seconds observing the two men, even before he had entered the room. He could – and had deduced a lot of things about the two men. He could (and would) point out who had physically pulled the trigger and shot Janine, but that was _not_  the game he had been called to play that day.

The two men hadn’t even exchanged a glance, they would be separated and interrogated by different people once he got out of that room. He had asked to meet them together and no one had objected.

The two men were looking at him, Sherlock deduced that they had not worked together before that particular job, nevertheless, there was _something_ connecting them. They didn’t look worried, their body language screamed defiance. Neither man was the new boyfriend Janine had hinted about – but that did not matter at the moment. The new boyfriend had clearly served his purpose (it was a long shot, not supported by facts, yet), those men simply did not care about the prospect of spending time in jail. They expected that. They had been _expecting_ him.

The tallest of the two men – the one who had physically shot Janine, Sherlock deduced – smiled and said, “You are not asking any questions.”

It was true. He had not asked any questions, he had not said a word. All the things he had already deduced about the two men in front of him: where they came from, where they lived, the brands of soaps and shampoos they used, the fact that they had had the time to have coffee and eggs before they had been arrested, wouldn’t answer the question that really mattered: who was behind them? Who had given them the order to kill Janine?

“I don’t need to,” Sherlock replied.

The man smiled. “Of course, you don’t.”

He didn’t care. He didn’t care that he would go to jail. He – they expected that.

“You know?” The man said, he didn’t have a recognizable accent, but Sherlock could still catch some hints of southern African inflection, “We could do this all day, but we both know you are in a hurry, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. It wasn’t surprising that the men knew about Mary. It was all connected after all. The man smiled, Sherlock noticed that the other one, slightly shorter than the other, military haircut, ordinary features, except for the nose that had been broken for the past year, wasn’t saying a word.

“Not really,” Sherlock said.

The man shook his head and chuckled. “You still think you can do anything, Mr. Holmes, but you can’t.” The man leant his elbows on the table, he distinctly heard the clinking of the handcuffs, he saw the way the man joined his hands, his blunt nails, the calluses on his fingers, the tan on his skin (he hadn’t been long in London, a week at most), the absolute calm in his hazel eyes as he said, “What you must do is going to your good friend Herman Bennett and watch your doctor ask him for the code. That’s all you must do.”

The man was very much aware of the fact that he was being observed. He knew – they both knew that they didn’t even have to confess Janine’s murder, they had left traces that made a confession unnecessary.

“Is this a part of your job?” Sherlock asked, genuine curiosity in his voice, “Relay a message to me?”

The man didn’t talk. The other man tilted his head on a side and said, “We will see again Mr. Holmes, but that’s all you are going to get for now.”

The two men – were more than mere assassins, more than hit men paid to do a job. The four men who had kidnapped Joan had not been like that: they hadn’t said words, they had been – mere thugs doing their jobs, they hadn’t been surprised to see him in that warehouse, but there hadn’t been messages, there hadn’t been words – there hadn’t been that calm, that arrogance.

Those men hadn’t been part of the bigger scheme.

The men sitting in front of him were – _not_ Herman Bennett, they weren’t yapping away about Jim Moriarty, they were cogs in that machine meant to destroy him. And Sherlock felt _nothing._

It was a peculiar feeling: he had been overwhelmed with feelings, with fear, shame, and rage, with grief – but he could not feel a bloody thing in that moment.

“I expected questions, I expected _more_.” The man, the tallest of the two, the one clearly appointed to relay the message said.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sherlock replied.

The man actually laughed at his words and said, “Oh, no – I’m not disappointed. At all. I was told you’d react with silence, I just didn’t want to believe it.”

“By whom?” Sherlock asked.

The man shrugged and only said, “Time’s up. Go meet your friend Herman Bennett. Heard you got quite intimate while you were together.”

The other man said, “Perhaps you might do some good and save at least _one_ life –“

He was supposed to do more, he was supposed to deduce whom they were working for, he was supposed to make them _talk._ He wasn’t sure he could move a single muscle without unraveling.

It was not the puerile allusions to what had happened in Herman Bennett’s basement. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t the images featuring both Victor and Mary being _hurt_ because of him or Janine’s blood, her handwriting on that wall and the message stuck in her throat.

It was not the fact that John had not looked at him, really looked at him since he had woken up.

He had felt numb and hollowed out, he had felt bursting with rage, he had felt raw and exposed, vulnerable and unable to recognize himself.

He had given them exactly what they wanted, every step of the way. He had told John that he would change strategy, that he would not play by those people’s rules – but the truth was that there was one rule only: hurting him, bit by bit – and he had danced all along and it was too late to change that.

He could get out of that room, refuse to play – and three people would die. He could keep playing and there was no guarantee that Victor, Mary, and the baby would be safe, but he _knew_ that in the end, they would kill him.

He didn’t realise he had got up, he didn’t even realise he had grabbed the man’s head and banged it against the desk – he didn’t hear the noise of bones breaking, he didn’t feel the blood splashing on his hand and on his shirt until he felt strong arms (Lestrade’s?) pulling him away.

The other man was still calm, he had tiny splatters of blood on the side of his face, the man – God, he didn’t even know his name, he hadn’t even bothered to learn it, he didn’t _care_ – he had just smashed his face against the table, he had broken his nose, knocked out teeth, he was bleeding, but that hadn’t changed the look in his eyes. He had won.

And Sherlock still couldn’t feel a thing.

“See you soon, Sherlock.” The man he had just – assaulted said. He turned his head on a side and spat some blood on the floor. He didn’t seem angry, he looked unconcerned.

Sherlock followed Lestrade outside – and yes, it had been him who had intervened, and yes, he had not heard him get into that room, he still wasn’t feeling a thing.

 John was there, he could feel the man looking at him, and there was something – wrong, it felt like the first seconds in Magnussen’s bedroom, when the woman in black had turned and he had seen Mary.

Lestrade was talking, undoubtedly asking him what he had been thinking. He looked worried, people had said for years that he was a freak, a psychopath – and if Sally Donovan had been there, in that moment, she would have smirked, looked at Lestrade and John and gloat.

That was not – him …or was it? 

Lestrade was still talking, but Sherlock wasn’t really listening to what he was saying, he was noticing small details he had missed until that moment, insignificant trivia, traces of the night he had spent sleeping on Molly Hooper’s sofa.

“Well,” John said, interrupting Lestrade’s tirade and it felt like the first clear thing he had felt since he had entered that room and seen the two men.

John took a step toward him and looked down at his hand, Sherlock noticed that he didn’t touch it at first, he hesitated and when he did his touch was clinical, impersonal.

“The good news is that you didn’t mess your stitches,” John said.

 John’s voice was soft, he looked at him for a moment and he saw that John was actively trying to keep a blank look in his eyes. John could be a good liar if the situation warranted it, he had asked him to go back to Mary, to lie to her and he had succeeded (and it had been more painful than he had expected, but it had also been necessary at the time), but he could usually tell when he was lying – and John had long stopped trying to.

That was different, it wasn’t a lie, it was – something else, something that he should understand, that he was supposed to see right away. He was supposed to be a genius, he was supposed to read people like open books, and yet he couldn’t. And he didn't understand why.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, and he hated that the man was looking at him with pity.

 _No_. Anger, disappointment, annoyance he could take, but _pity_ was absolutely – unnecessary.

“You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?” Lestrade asked.

“I don’t think I missed much,” Sherlock replied. John was still close to him, he wasn’t touching him, he was just _there._

“Don’t worry, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, “He won’t say a thing to his lawyer.”

“That’s not what I am worried about!” Greg hissed.

Sherlock smiled. Lestrade had never truly seen that side of him, hadn’t he? Lestrade had seen the bodies in that warehouse – how did he think those men had met their demise? Did he think it had been elegant? Clean?

It hadn’t. Things had been bloody, dirty. They often tended to be like that.

No.

No, that was not what Lestrade was worried about – and he didn’t care  about Lestrade’s worries.

“We need to see Herman Bennett,” John said.

 His voice was soft, but he knew that particular inflection – he knew that there would be no reasoning, that nothing he could say would make him change his mind.

He had wondered why – why they had wanted John to share the same breathing space with Herman Bennett and he knew John had wondered as well. There had been no logical reason, except remarking what had happened in the basement.

No. _That_ was why: Mary and the baby.

“Are you … are you all right, Sherlock?” John asked.

John’s voice – John had not slept, he had had a shower, but he had not shaved (there hadn’t been enough time), he was pale, he had avoided looking at him – he had kept a blank look on his face, but now – now there was worry, there was _love_  in his eyes. He looked _sad._

“Are you?” Sherlock asked. He should have asked that before, while they were still in their sitting room or in the car on the way to Scotland Yard.

He hadn’t.

“All right,” John said softly.

“John –“ Sherlock trailed.

“It’s my daughter, Sherlock!” John said.

Sherlock nodded.

John’s daughter: one of the reasons why he had lied to John in their sitting room, the reason why he had protected Mary –

He had vowed to protect John and Mary – and their unborn child.

“Yes, of course.” He only said.

He didn’t add anything else. He couldn’t promise that his daughter – his own stepdaughter, technically speaking – would be safe.

He couldn’t promise him that. He couldn’t even see what John was hiding from him. He had no idea about who was behind those people.

He had failed. He was still failing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It started with a flinch on a crime scene, with the body of a young man dumped in a warehouse like trash. It had started with a name carved, over and over, on that young man’s body.

Herman Bennett had been just a name – it had been pictures of crime scenes, forensics reports on the five victims – it had been detailed reports on what that man had done to  three women and two men.

And then things had gone to hell in a matter of seconds, really. It had been few seconds that John had relived, over and over, countless times, ever since; Sherlock with his hands up, walking toward that man, his voice calm and almost hypnotic as he offered himself up to save Alyce Bradford, the hunger, the glee in Herman Bennett’s green eyes.

They had caught him, eventually. They had found Sherlock – but it hadn’t been the end. It had been a divide, yet another item to add to his personal lists of before and after.

It had been blood, nightmares, Sherlock changing, allowing the cracks that he had been so good at hiding from him to show, to deepen and he had said, promised, vowed to himself that he would not leave him. He hadn’t. Not yet.

_He was all right._

_For some reason, John had expected, feared to see visible signs on Sherlock’s face of his week spent in a government facility. He had imagined bruises on his face – but there weren’t. He was all right. He was standing, tall and proud in front of him on the tarmac._

_He hadn’t seen him since he had been taken away on Magnussen’s terrace on Christmas day._

_He hadn’t been allowed to visit him, he had tried to, but Mycroft had not returned his calls – in the end he had got in contact with him, telling him that a car would be waiting for them._

_He had done what Sherlock had asked him to: he had burned the memory stick in front of Mary, he had said words to her – and they hadn’t been lies altogether. Sherlock had told him not to lie if at all possible. Sherlock always said that lies had details and that in that particular case he had to choose his words carefully._

_“Think about your child, John.” He had said._

_And he had._

_That was supposed to buy him time, to give them the chance to find out more about Mary’s real identity and deal with Magnussen at the same time. But things had gone spectacularly wrong._

_And – he had no idea about what he was supposed to do, now. He hadn’t known for days. All he had been able to see, whenever he closed his eyes was Sherlock walking through the fire for him, Sherlock telling him that Mary was safe, Sherlock shouting to stay well back._

_His eyes were dry, painfully so, his hands were cold – and he wasn’t ready. He would never be ready._

He had seen Herman Bennett three times – twice briefly, mere seconds, and then he had watched him with Sherlock through a tv screen when Joan Adams had been kidnapped.

Mycroft had not said a word when he had greeted them at the facility – he had had the same look in his eyes he had shown a few hours earlier when he had come to Baker Street.

Mycroft knew. He knew about the text he had received. He knew everything and he had not said a word about it: not to Sherlock and, obviously, not to him.

Once again Mycroft Holmes was using him – and John couldn’t say he particularly cared. Not that time.

He had thought about telling Sherlock immediately – he had hoped Sherlock would deduce what had happened, the content of the text: the requests, the words right away, but he had not.

Sherlock was trying to understand – Sherlock, for some reason, could not _see_ and John  didn’t have it in him to try and understand why. If he didn’t understand, if he didn’t see, maybe – just maybe John would save his daughter and Sherlock too.

Herman Bennett had lost weight since he had last seen him – he had been tall and burly – he had been happy, despite being in prison.

He wasn’t happy, now. _Good_. That was good. Herman Bennett had long, deep shadows under his bloodshot eyes, he was keeping his head slightly tilted down as the guards brought him into the room and swallowed when they made him sit.

Herman Bennett had looked unafraid with Sherlock – he had been sure he had hurt him, broken him, he had been sure he had done a good job, that he had bested even Jim Moriarty.

He looked ordinary, now. He looked like he hadn’t slept or properly eaten for days.

He looked – nervous, scared _._

Mycroft Holmes had done everything in his power to keep the man in that facility and he could see why; he had no idea about what he was doing to Herman Bennett , but whatever it was it was both legal (or the men’s lawyers would have already complained publicly) and most importantly, it was working.

He saw, however, a spark of something  - that wicked glee he had shown  while talking to Sherlock when he looked at him.

“Hello, John.” Herman Bennett said.

 

_Time slowed down. It was a chilly morning and John could feel that cold seeping throughout him, right down to his gut._

_Sherlock – Sherlock was leaving (because of him), he had said that it was unlikely that they would ever meet again._

_Sherlock would not come back. There would be no miracles, no magic tricks._

_And he could not say a word – and words were just words anyway –_

_And there was no time._

_What was he supposed to do, after? Go back to his wife and pretend that Sherlock wasn’t going to his death? Because Sherlock could not look at him, he was lying. He was an excellent liar, but he had never been able to truly lie to him and look at him in the eyes._

Sherlock had told him that the thought of him sharing space with that man was abhorrent to him. That man – that disgusting animal _was_ abhorrent, he had imagined hurting him, he wanted to hurt him – to make him bleed, but as much as he wanted he couldn’t. That man, that bastard who had tortured the man he loved, who had raped him and carved James Moriarty’s name on Sherlock’s chest might help him save his daughter.

She wasn’t born yet. She was innocent, she was their bargaining tool, one of them, at least.  

“You know why I am here,” John said.

Herman Bennett nodded his head. John had never noticed that he had long and surprisingly thin fingers, Sherlock would be proud to know that he had observed that he had bitten his nails, almost to the quick.

The man nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his face, “Oh, yes. I have been asked to cooperate with you, John.”

He hated the way that man was saying his name, he hated that his daughter’s life depended on whether that man would tell him a stupid numerical code. He hated that Sherlock was watching him, in that moment, and he could not tell him the truth – even if he would fall into a trap, meant to – destroy him. He could only hope that Mycroft would use him in a way that would save his daughter’s life and Sherlock’s.

“Then cooperate,” John replied.

The man smiled, John noticed that he had chapped lips when he licked them. For a moment he saw himself doing what Sherlock had done at Scotland Yard: he saw himself bashing that sick bastard’s head against the table over and over.  He saw himself stopping only when he had actually killed him, until he could see his blood spilling over the table.

He could almost taste the blood, almost smell it - and he had to unclench his fists under the table.

"Very well," Herman Bennett said, and John remembered the man's voice, his perfect diction and his house lacking in everything personal.

"Four," the man said, he smiled and added quickly, "I can smell him all over you - have you fucked him, yet?”

Herman Bennett grinned and John clenched his jaws. He had expected that. He had known there would be _that:_ Herman Bennett had been obsessed with Sherlock, that was one of the things he had told him two nights before when he had told him about what had happened in the basement, but he had already seen that. He had already known that.

“The code." John said and that couldn't possibly be his voice: too soft, too calm - not when everything he was wanted to rip that man's throat out.

It was his daughter. They hadn't even settled on a name, yet. There were toys in the nursery, but not a crib -- he hadn't got around to assemble one.

It was Sherlock, who would die if he intervened - and his daughter would too if he didn't do what he had been asked to do.

"I take that's a yes, good on you, mate!" The man said and then added, "eight."

The guards were still in the room, but Bennett wasn't afraid of them, not anymore.

"Is he watching us?" He asked.

He was, those were the rules, and Herman Bennett probably knew. Nevertheless, John shook his head no, "Don't flatter yourself. He is not watching."

"One." The man said and grinned, again, "Liar! Sherlock must tell you of what I told him once I got him on his knees sometimes - best blow job of my life, mate!"

He was goading him. He was being himself: a fucking bastard.

 

_He should tell him. Mary or not. He should tell him a lot of things. He had barely scraped the surface of what Sherlock was to him in front of a black headstone, and had spent two years, after, not saying those words either – drinking himself stupid to avoid voicing those words._

_He couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t tell Sherlock not to go. He couldn’t do a bloody thing. Sherlock had saved his life, his future, he had saved his daughter. He had – uphold his vow._

_“John –“ Sherlock said, and he realised that he would never hear him saying his name again._

_“There is something I should say…” Sherlock said._

_John’s heart hurt in his chest. He could not hear that. Whatever it was – whatever Sherlock wanted to say, John could not hear that._

John kept very still.

“Four,” Bennett said. He lowered his voice, even though he must be aware that Mycroft and Sherlock were listening, that there were two guards in that room. Bennett looked at him: he had been waiting for that moment, whatever Mycroft was doing to him, it hadn’t curbed the man’s obsession for Sherlock – it hadn’t erased the glee, the satisfaction over what had happened in the basement.

“I told him he could pretend it was you while I fucked his mouth if he so wished…”

John felt bile rising in his throat. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He needed those bloody numbers, he needed to see what was inside that small box, he had to do as he had been asked. He wondered whether Sherlock was keeping his right hand closed in a fist while looking at them and hearing those words. He wondered whether Sherlock was seeing what was really going on.

“Nine,” Bennett said and his smile faded. He did look around, that time, and said, “That was not part of the plan, by the way. _He_ didn’t think he would save the pretty thing. _He_ said that he would find me _after_   – I had to improvise.” He shrugged and said, “Five.”

John felt the man’s gaze on him, he wondered how long he would have to sit still and hear him talk before he could leave that room, before he could move without fearing he would put his hands around that man’s neck and squeeze.

They hadn’t said he couldn’t touch Herman Bennett. They had only said that he had to sit there. And he had.

Herman Bennett had been looking at his left hand, he realised. The man smirked and said, “I wonder whether they have started chopping her off – starting with her womb. Wish I had been there myself.”

_“I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.” Sherlock said._

_They would never meet again. Sherlock Holmes was the best man he had ever met. He was  - everything. His everything. He was leaving and John had to accept that._

_The last time they had parted, the last time he had gone away, there had been tears, there had been a magic trick, an illusion, blood on the concrete outside Bart’s, people, a lot of people surrounding him, while everything went monochrome._

_There was just them, now, there was the silence, Sherlock’s skin, pale and perfect, his eyes, his body close to him, a chilly morning, New Year’s eve – and John kept still, he looked at Sherlock, drank him in, because that would be the last time, because he had been so fucking wrong about him, about him not bothering to protect someone._

_He was supposed to go back to his life, after. He was supposed to stay with Mary, unless until Mycroft would find out who in the bloody hell his wife really was. He was supposed to accept everything, like the good soldier he was. He was supposed to keep a stiff upper lip, to let Sherlock go to his death. Because he had six months left, that was what Mycroft had said, and he was never wrong, wasn’t he?_

_Sherlock wasn’t talking. And John couldn’t say a word, either – and wasn’t that their life together in a nutshell?_

Herman Bennett licked his lips again and said, “Zero.” He smiled. He looked _relieved_. John blinked his eyes, he felt it, even before it actually happened. He moved, as quickly as he could, especially when he heard the soft, almost muffled noise coming from Herman Bennett’s mouth.

He thought about a bomb, at first, he thought about his daughter, about who would save her – who would look after her. He moved, jumping on the table  and then next to Herman Bennett as he started to convulse. The man was scratching his own neck, even though he had bitten his nails to the quick, he saw blood on his skin and oozing out from his nose.

His instinct took over, that man could _not_ die. Not yet. He had talked about a " _he",_ he had not mentioned Jim Moriarty once, and it didn’t matter how much touching him physically repulsed him.

It was poison, and it didn’t make any sense – and he could hear people coming in, hopefully more doctors; Bennett was convulsing, he was in pain and a distant part of him was actually enjoying that, but that had to wait. Bennett blindly reached out to him, grabbing the back of his neck, his fingers were icy cold and John fought that hold, but it was surprisingly strong.

Bennett was dying, but he still wasn’t done. John looked at him: the man was opening and closing his mouth , thin rivulets of blood were trailing down at the sides of his mouth. John swallowed, Bennett was trying to speak, to say something. He wanted to tell him something.

He looked at the people in the room: the two guards, a man and a woman who wore scrubs. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had got in the room.

He tilted his head down, getting closer to Bennett. No one got close, no one tried to stop him. He could still feel bile rising in his throat and had to swallow past it.

He hated having the man’s fingers still gripping, with a surprising strength, the back of his neck, but John inched closer.

He shivered when he felt the man’s breath against his skin, against his jaw, first, almost as if the man wanted to kiss him, he heard Sherlock’s voice, in the room, behind him. When had he got in?

The man rattled, his breath hot and smelling of something bitter and metallic against his skin and the man’s lips and tongue touched his ear: the shell, first and then the lobe.

“Stay back!” John hissed at anyone in particular (Sherlock, actually. He needed to stay back, he needed to stay well back!).

“Choose,” Bennett whispered in his ear.

His grip on the back of his neck lessened, he shrugged the man’s arm around his shoulder and sat back.

He had heard Herman Bennett exhale his last breath, but he didn’t say anything as the doctor, the nurse, and the guards were trying to – save him.

_Choose._

_“To the very best of times,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand. As if they were – soldiers. As if he hadn’t seen him in ratty pajamas eating crisps while they watched movies together._

_Sherlock’s hand was cold – and he shook it, the cold had numbed him, and he couldn’t believe it was ending like that – and he hadn’t said a word. Five years of laughter, of tears, of alleys and abandoned houses, of e-mails and a pool where they both had been ready to die._

_He couldn’t think of going back to his life after that. He would survive because that was what he always did. He would – walk and do the things he usually did. He would have a daughter, he would love and cherish her – and Sherlock would be paying the price._

He had already made his choice and it was the only one he could make. Sherlock had said once that he wasn’t willing to ever live in a world without him in it. He had asked him whether he thought that he could live without him. He couldn’t. He had tried it once and it had nearly killed him. He knew all of that was a trap. He had known since he had read the text. He knew that there was a high chance he would die –  he knew they wanted to use him to hurt Sherlock,  but he had to do something – if there was one chance, even the smallest one that it could save his daughter and Sherlock he had to take it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

John didn’t remember Sherlock ever looking at Mycroft with such contempt as he had done when the elder Holmes had told him that he didn’t have the security clearance to go with Sherlock and see Herman Bennett’s cell.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft had said, “There are things even I cannot circumnavigate, brother mine.”

That was the most outrageous lie he had heard coming out from Mycroft’s lips. Sherlock – was unnaturally pale, they hadn’t had a moment alone after Bennett had died and John was almost grateful for that. He didn’t think he could keep up the façade while his hands were still dirty with Bennett’s blood. He would have talked, he would have told Sherlock everything, he would have condemned Mary and his daughter.

“Of course, you can’t.” Sherlock had said.

Sherlock was – dangerous. Mycroft knew, but that hadn’t stopped him from sending him to see Bennett’s cell just with Drake and Harris. Sherlock had observed him for a couple of seconds, there had been confusion on his face – he still couldn’t see (why? Why couldn’t he?), his mind was refusing to accept what was truly happening.

Mycroft had led him to the same room where they had seen Sherlock and Bennett’s interrogation. John was tired, he wanted to wash his hands, he wanted to find Mary, he wanted to bring Sherlock home and talk to him, make sure that he would lose that look in his eyes: the one of someone who was losing touch with reality, who couldn’t deal with what was surrounding him because it was scaring him, it was worse than the hollowness he had seen in Sherlock’s eyes while he was in the hospital.

And he would make matters worse for him, he knew that – but he didn’t know what else to do.

“We don’t have much time,” Mycroft said while he observed Sherlock tearing Herman Bennett’s cell apart.

“You kept your word. You said you wouldn’t go anywhere. I must say that I wasn’t sure you would.” Mycroft continued, ignoring him.

 John pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Mycroft – get to the damn point!”

He didn’t care whether Mycroft had believed him or not. He only cared that Mycroft Holmes knew what was going on and he could help him, he could help Sherlock. He had to.

“I know you would never willing leave my brother,” Mycroft said.

John rolled his eyes, choosing not to look at the screen. Part of him was still hoping that Sherlock and Mycroft were in cohorts, again, and were deceiving him. He hoped that what he had seen in Sherlock ever since Mycroft had given them the news of Mary’s kidnapping was just an act.

The lines of worry that creased Mycroft’s brow was not an act – and neither was the way he was holding the handle of the umbrella with both hands almost compulsively.

“You know,” John said.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied.

“Sherlock doesn’t.” John said, and he was aware that there were more pressing matters, that if there was a plan that was the moment for Mycroft to tell him what it was and he saw a hint of impatience in the other man’s eyes when he said, “I’m painfully aware of that, John.”

He wanted to ask why, he wanted the assurance that Mycroft would make sure Sherlock would get better, that he would survive, but the man was right, they didn’t have much time.

“They will surely know you keep my mobile under control,” John said. It was useless to dance around the facts.

“I know,” Mycroft said he was still looking at the screen, he was watching Sherlock tear that cell apart, looking for clues. Herman Bennett had poisoned himself, even though he had been searched and another capsule had been already found on his body when he had been admitted to the facility.

John thought that he was supposed to be with Sherlock because they didn’t have much time, but he wasn’t with him.

“I need to know now, John, what are you willing to do for Sherlock.”

John didn’t talk. Did Mycroft truly need to hear it? Didn’t he already know?

“I – I think I get it, now. You know? I was so mad at him, even the last time, but I get it, now.” John said.

“Do you?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh, yes,” John replied. He hazarded a look at the screen, Sherlock wasn’t moving, he was looking around in the small cell, analyzing data.

“Sometimes,” John said, “taking away the right to choose from a person, is the only choice you do actually have.”

There was a moment of silence. Was Mycroft satisfied with his answer? The simple one would have been one word: everything. But that was not what Mycroft had truly wanted to hear.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, turning to look at him, “you do seem to understand.”

“I’m not actually stupid, you know?” John said. His hands itched, he needed to get Herman Bennett’s blood off his hands.

Mycroft gave him a small, tight-lipped smile, “I can assure you I have never believed you were.”

“Just –“ John said, and his throat hurt, it was dry, but his heartbeat was steady as much as his hands, “look after him?”

Mycroft tilted his head on a side, “I thought  that was what you excelled at.” He said. He took a step closer to him and said, “Let’s make sure you will keep doing so.”

John nodded. He didn’t tell Mycroft that Sherlock would not forgive him for that. He didn’t tell him that he would have to do more than what he had done so far, that he would have not to be smart, clever but a bloody big brother because Sherlock would need him, more than ever.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17 ~ All our good byes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was in Serbia, running and running, knowing that they would get him, that he didn’t have any weapon on him, that John, in his mind, was urging him to keep running but the balance of probability told him that he would be caught. He would be hurt.
> 
> He was –
> 
> He was on the ledge of a rooftop, fear like lava in his veins: Lazarus was a go, jumping was inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just about killed me. I apologise for any grammar mistake you might find in this chapter. I'll try and edit the fic when it's done, so that most the mistakes will be corrected (flying solo sucks!)  
> Thank you so much for the feedback - @Lillocked and @thesignofserbia this chapter is for you!!   
> Warning: this chapter has quite dark imagery ...so, be prepared!:)

 

Visiting Herman Bennett’s cell had been a colossal waste of time. There was nothing in there, but Mycroft had already known that, _he_ had known he wouldn’t find anything and yet that knowledge hadn’t stopped him. He had seen where the man had spent the last two weeks of his life, under constant surveillance after a guard of his block had been found dead in his own bed.

What he had deduced right away was what Mycroft had done – or attempted to do with the man. He had  already deduced some of the things he had done, every day, during his daily mind-numbingly boring hours with him, in his car; he had been aware of every tactic he had used, every progress he had made: Mycroft had wanted to destroy the man, break him. He had been aware of that – but seeing that cell had further clarified things for him. Part of him had almost been moved by Mycroft’s actions.

And even if Mycroft could see things that he couldn’t at the moment, things that for some reason he couldn’t understand, despite the fact that they were dancing just at the periphery of his thoughts, he could see clearly why his brother hadn’t succeeded: Mr. Bennett had had still things to do, that was why he couldn’t break him, destroy him like he had wanted to do. It was difficult to break someone who still had something to lose, a mission to accomplish, something ( _someone_ ) they believed in. He should know. 

The fact, what truly mattered at the moment, was that Mycroft could see things that he couldn’t and not for lack of trying – therefore he needed to focus, to concentrate, to observe, to tear away the temporary paralysis his brain was prey of at the moment.

He had to act, he had to do something.

Mycroft had seen – and that worried Sherlock because Mycroft and he were similar in a way: they were both extremely good at manipulating people, at moving them like pawns on a chessboard. The only difference between them, one that had been carved on his skin long before Herman Bennett had held that razor and pierced his skin for the first time: he was aware of the consequences of using people, he had seen those consequences in John, in Lestrade, in Janine. People suffered ( _that was what people did. Didn’t they?)._  

Mycroft saw the differences but he didn’t care.

The only good thing coming from the past hour or so was that seeing Herman Bennett, watching him die, had taken some of that peculiar lack of any feeling and thoughts away. He had moved, he had seen the way Mr. Bennett had moved his mouth, he had heard how he had clucked his tongue and he had known that he would poison himself. It had been obvious, really. He would learn, later, that they had searched the man’s body and teeth for poison and they had found a capsule of cyanide. They hadn’t seen the other, apparently.

Moving, getting into that room, had helped him focus – seeing that man touch John  had cleared up the fog his mind. It was ironic how he should be thankful to that man for shaking him from a bone-deep numbness he had not been able to tear apart on his own.

 Herman Bennett had died and had finally, _finally_ hinted at someone above him, someone that wasn’t Jim Moriarty. He hadn’t said Jim Moriarty’s name, not even once. There hadn’t been any rant about the dead man.

Mycroft had used a ridiculous excuse to be alone with John – because his brother, unlike him, in that moment, had no troubles observing things. Sherlock might know that John was hiding something from him, but Mycroft probably knew for certain. He probably knew, what exactly John was hiding from him and why. He would formulate a plan, a strategy and he could not allow that happen.

He walked slowly toward the room where he knew he would find John and Mycroft. Drake and Harris were behind him, he could feel their eyes on him, but he ignored them. The two men had exchanged worried glances while he was in Herman Bennett’s cell. Sherlock didn’t care. Let the men think that he was coming undone, he didn’t have time to _care._

He needed to think; Mr. Bennett had known about Mary’s kidnapping, he had known what was happening. He had known the code to unlock the small black box that was currently at Bart’s being examined.

But that, too, didn’t matter. Herman Bennett was dead and the only thing he could feel was disgust at the thought that the man had touched John.

John - what was he hiding from him? Had they got in touch with him somehow? It was the most logical assumption, of course, and his mind palace got – darker, his thoughts jammed at that prospect. It was the most logical move and the one Sherlock could not contemplate or accept.

The two men outside the office where John and Mycroft were, ignored him as he opened the door. John and Mycroft were indeed there, sitting at a table, John’s hands were stained with Herman Bennett’s blood and he could still smell it faintly: that foul, putrid odor that he would forever associate with the dead man.

“John didn’t have a security clearance,” He asked, closing the door behind him, “Really, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, a placid look on his face as he said,  “I told you: there are things even I cannot circumnavigate.”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t have time to remind his brother of all the times where he had circumnavigated the laws, where he had bent them to serve his purposes.

He looked at John: he was still too pale and he hated that he had that man’s blood on him, but that would have to wait.

“Look at me,” Sherlock said. And John knew that he had talked to him. “John.” He added, “Look at me.”

John let out a breath and looked at him, “Greg has just called, he is at Bart’s, with Molly, something has happened, he wouldn’t tell me what, not on the phone –“ He said, “I could hear Molly cry, though.” That was the truth, he could also see that John hated having that blood on him as much as he did.

He also knew that that was _clearly_ a distraction, not the fact that Greg had called or that Molly Hooper was crying. That was something they would have to deal with, but John was buying time.  What he noticed, what he clearly saw, was that he wasn’t keeping a blank look in his eyes and face any more. He was open – he looked exhausted.

“We’ll talk on the way to Bart’s,” Sherlock said.

John would tell him the truth and Sherlock would ask him to tell him the truth if the man lied, since he couldn’t see, couldn’t deduce anything useful at the moment.

John nodded his head and got up from his chair, “I need to wash my hands.” He said.

Yes, of course. That – that was _good._

“There is a bathroom here –“ Mycroft said pointing at a closed door. 

John clenched his hands, nodded and went into the room, closing the door behind him.

“It’s his daughter, Sherlock. And his wife.” Mycroft said.

“She is _not_ his wife!” Sherlock hissed, he felt it: another tear in that paralysis that still wouldn’t let him properly think. It felt more like an earthquake, shaking him from within.

Mycroft seemed to consider his words, “And yet you let her roam free for months after she killed you.” He said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You are being melodramatic, brother mine and it truly doesn’t matter now.” He said. Did Mycroft really want to talk about that? Why?

“You heart ceased to beat. The surgeon tried to restart your heart for minutes, he   called the time of death. I am merely stating the _facts_ , Sherlock!” Mycroft said sharply.

It was the first time since his stay at the hospital that they broached the subject. There hadn’t been time after – there had been too many things to deal with – and there was no time, now. There was no point in talking about what happened.

 Herman Bennett had not given them a deadline, there hadn’t been one in the white box filled with pictures, but Sherlock knew that they didn’t have much time.  

“We needed to know more about her,” Sherlock said, replying to Mycroft’s words, even though it was the last thing he wanted or cared about.  

Mycroft smiled, “Amazing what one is willing to do for the ones he holds most dear, isn’t it?” he said.

“How would you know?” Sherlock hissed, noticing the flash of  something (hurt?) in his brother’s eyes.

But that was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it? He should ask what did he know, what he had seen about John that he hadn’t. He should ask him to tell him, showing his momentary weakness and just ask him.

“They got in touch with him, didn’t they?” He asked eventually.

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

But there was more to it; there had to be. He took a step toward Mycroft, his brother was still sitting, Sherlock noticed that the man hadn’t slept, he looked – aged. They had seen each other the previous night, but somehow Mycroft had aged in the span of a few hours.

He blinked his eyes: the pieces were all there,  dancing  in front of him and he couldn’t put them together.

That had never happened –

No. That was a lie, it _had_ happened. It had happened when he had followed Herman Bennett down the stairs and he had not done a thing to stop him and he still couldn’t understand why.

“They said they would kill my daughter if I didn’t meet Herman Bennett,” John said. He had heard the door opening, he had known he had been observing him – it felt good to have John’s eyes on him, to know that he was still there, with him, in that room, not just physically, but with everything he was. 

Sherlock moved a step toward the man. He was telling him the truth – but not all of it.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Sherlock asked.

John sighed, “Sherlock – Greg is really worried and there is nothing we can do here. Let’s go to Bart’s, I’ll tell you on the way.”

He had known what would happen when he followed Herman Bennett down those stairs. He had known because he had seen the pictures of the other victims because he had observed Jason Miller’s body and had glimpsed Alyce Bradford’s. He had known how dangerous it would really be because Herman Bennett had not been like other people he had met and fought against. He had willingly walked into traps before, but he had always had an escape plan, however flimsy, a mole, an inside man or woman ready to help.

 That time had been different. He had suspected Herman Bennett was obsessed with him, that he would try and bargain somehow – that was why he had left his notebook on Lestrade’s desk, but it had been just a precaution. He had thought they would catch Herman Bennett, save the girl and go home. He had thought he would disarm the man and move on.  

He felt – _blind_. Like while he climbed down those steps that led to the basement. John was still hiding something from him. But what? Why?

John shrugged his shoulders, “They asked me not to. They told me to wait.” He said.

“This is not a game, it’s my daughter, Sherlock!” He added after a moment, his voice low and hard as steel.

He could see it in John’s eyes: the blame, the accusation, the anger, the recriminations. John didn’t need to remind him of all the times that he had lied to him, deceived him either to protect him or because it was his nature because he was not a good man. It was written in every crease of John’s face, in his eyes, whose color had got darker.  

“May I read the text?” Sherlock asked.

John quirked an eyebrow in surprise at his words and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “It was _obviously_ a text – I would have heard your phone ringing, your laptop was still in the sitting room, untouched, and I know that nothing got into our flat last night.” He held out his hand and asked, “May I read the text?”

He felt like an impostor, like the fraud Jim Moriarty had led people to believe he was. What purpose did it serve to deduce stupid details when he couldn’t see what was right in front of him?

“They asked me to delete it and I did,” John said and Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he was lying or not.

Sherlock took another step, he turned toward Mycroft and said, “Excuse us for a moment.”

He grabbed John by his arm and opened the bathroom’s door, closing it immediately behind them.

“John –“ Sherlock whispered.

“I did what I had to do, Sherlock,” John said. Sherlock felt the weight of John’s words, he felt them hovering in the room, between them and could only blink his eyes for a moment.  

Sherlock shook his head and closed the distance between them; John moved as well, tangling his hands in his hair. Sherlock clenched his jaws; John – John was touching him, whatever wall he had put between them for the past few hours was crumbling down and he felt like his mind, his lungs could work properly again.

“I know…” Sherlock breathed. And he could barely recognize his own voice. What was worse was that he didn’t care because John was breathing against his collarbone.

 There was an almost imperceptible trembling in John’s body and Sherlock could feel it, right down to his core. It was another tear in that paralysis, another earthquake in his mind and Sherlock closed his eyes.

 He should have done that before. He should have let John’s arms loop around his sides (his back hurt, there was the chance he might have pulled a few stitches, they were supposed to come off in a couple of days anyway and he did _not_ care), he should have trailed his hands up and down John’s back, like he was doing now, he should have thought – understand right away.

“I can’t let her die, Sherlock,” John said in a low voice.

It was the truth – but there was something else John wasn’t telling him. He should look at John, he should ask him – he should ask him to tell him the truth.

John would tell him the truth – and it would be a jagged instrument, bloody and terrible because some truths were like that.

“We will find her – them.” He said.

He didn’t ask John anything else. He didn’t say anything else. And neither did John.

Later he would regret it. He would think back at those brief moments and think about that he should have said more, done more.

* * *

 

 

There had been a code for Sherlock’s return. Mr. Neal had come up with all kind of codes and tactics. She had learned that he wasn’t a big fan of those things, but he had adapted to their target. Mary suspected that he was having fun, even though she wouldn’t know for sure since she had only met the man twice.

_Icarus._

Mary remembered the moment the message had come, she remembered how she had driven John to the cemetery that day, how he had asked her whether she would mind staying with him. She had never asked before nor had John offered. John still went each week, sometimes he lied to her and didn’t tell her that he went, other times he did.

It had taken her about a month before John broached the subject and told her about Sherlock and how he had died. She had nodded in the right places, she had offered comfort without being patronizing, condescending or saccharine. She had held him and then she had fucked him. John had not said a word when he had climaxed. He never did – it would have been awkward if John had said the wrong name while coming inside of her. That first night, the first time she had fucked him, his heartbreak had been all over his face and so had been who was really in his mind, behind his closed lids as he came. Well, at least he had been a considerate lover, she had had worse through the years. 

When the message had come, right after John had gone to Baker Street (official excuse: run some errands), she had had to sit down for a moment. She had known that day would come. She had known there would be a moment where she would have to be in the same room with Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes.

Mary groaned in pain, her mind was back in the present, away from the thoughts and recollections that she had not stopped from crowding her mind for the past few hours. God, she had forgotten what a bitch physical pain could be! And she didn’t like that she couldn’t feel a thing from the waist down.

“Hey!” She said aloud. She was alone in that room. She knew she was being watched, she knew they could hear her. She had known there would be  physical pain, Mr. Neal had told her about it, had warned her beforehand,  just like she had known that breathing in the same space with Sherlock Holmes would be difficult. She had known there would be sacrifices and dangers and she had accepted it all – but she couldn’t bullshit around the issue, now: she was afraid. Which was odd, since she didn’t remember when the last time she had truly been afraid had been. The tendrils of fears she had felt the night before had bloomed and she couldn’t ignore it any longer.

Fear was not bad, per se, she reminded herself, fear kept one alive if used correctly. She knew that; she had been taught that fear was useful, it could become an asset, but what would be really useful at the moment would be a fucking phone and hearing Mr. Neal’s voice telling her that plans had not changed.

“I want to talk to him, get me a damn phone, right now!” She said. She didn’t need to raise her voice. Raising her voice would only highlight her fear and that would not be _useful_. She didn’t even need to specify whom she wanted to talk to. She was one of the few who had direct contact with Mr. Neal, the people there were all aware of that.

 _Icarus_ had come through a spam message in her e-mail, jumbled among other words. She had had to sit down and breathe. She had had months to prepare herself for that moment, months spent practicing for that moment – but when it actually came, and hours later she was in the same room with Sherlock Holmes things had gone – _well_. Surprisingly well.  

She had learned more in those moments than in  months of research; she had learned more about the feelings the two men had for each other, more about Sherlock’s hubris and his two years away than she had truly cared for.

Sherlock might as well have spotted a giant neon sign above his head pointing out how lonely, how hurt, how scarred he was inside and outside. And it had been the first good thing she had seen for a very long time. It had been the perfect starting point for her. Mr. Neal had been right, as usual.

She had slept peacefully that night: without dreams, without images from her past haunting her.

She sighed. Her temples throbbed and she _hated_ IVs and needles in her arms. She needed to talk to Mr. Neal. She needed to know that things were still going as planned, that there hadn’t been any changes – she needed to know that Mr. Neal wasn’t going to let her rot in that room and employ some other strategy because of one thing she was absolutely certain: Mr. Neal needed Sherlock Holmes and his brother out of the way; he had offered her a way to get what she wanted, he had offered her the chance to destroy Sherlock Holmes and she had to be sure that he hadn’t changed his mind, that he hadn’t started to see her as a liability.

Sherlock was a mess – he was coming undone at the seams, he was hurting, but that was _not_ enough. And she had learned one thing from the situation with Magnussen: the Holmes’ brothers could be taken down. They were good, they were geniuses, they were exceptional – but they were also _human_. They had weaknesses, cracks in the facades,  they had pressure points that could be used against them. Jim Moriarty had paved the way, Charles Augustus Magnussen had been indispensable, but she had to finish the job. She had to.   
When the door opened and a man, wearing a ski mask – seriously, what the _fuck_? As if she hadn’t helped Mr. Neal to recruit most of the people working for them! As if she hadn’t personally  chosen some of the people working for them and wasn’t paying them with her own money! As if she had no idea about the identity of that man!

The man held a satellite phone in his hand. God, she hated those! She held out her hand, the one free from the IV, and cocked and eyebrow at the masked man. God, her face hurt, breathing was difficult and her body itched and throbbed from the waist up.

“How are you feeling?” Mr. Neal asked.

“Peachy.” She replied.

Mr. Neal chuckled at her words.

Mary sighed, “Anything funny?” she asked.

“Sorry.” The man said. As always he sounded sincere, but Mary could almost see the man’s smile, how he wasn’t sorry. At all.

“You wanted to talk to me.” Mr. Neal said.

“Is everything going according to the plan? Should I expect another surprise?” Mary asked. What had happened a few hours before had not been part of the plan. Things were supposed to go differently, but Sherlock had finally found his spine and had stopped protecting her; fucking John had apparently made him abandon his shining armor and remember that she had shot him, in cold blood and left him to bleed out in Magnussen’s bedroom.  

“Everything is going according to the plan, but I can’t promise you there won’t be any surprises. Now I am asking again, and I would like an honest answer, _Mary_ : how are you feeling?” Mr. Neal asked.

And if she didn’t know better, if she didn’t know that the only thing that mattered to the man was that she carried out her task, she might have bought the concern in his voice. He sounded genuinely worried about her. Who knew, maybe he was – she couldn’t say, she didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

“I am in pain and I can’t feel my legs,” Mary said.

“The effect of the epidural should fade soon. I am truly sorry about –“ Mr. Neal trailed.

“Yeah, I know.” Mary said, “Is everything ready? You know Mycroft Holmes will be on John like white on rice, right?”

“Yes, yes it is.” Mr. Neal replied, “and don’t worry about Mycroft Holmes. Everything is under control.”

Mary hesitated. Mr. Neal was calm, his world was an oyster. There was no way she could identify him, she didn’t know whether he was working alone or he had a boss. She realised that he could have her killed, that he could sacrifice her and she would have no leverage. She didn’t particularly care, she didn’t plan on living a long life. She didn’t want to, but that thought still didn’t sit well with her.

“Mr. Neal sensed her hesitation. Of course, he did. Mr. Neal was good at reading people, Mr. Neal was a fucking vulture with an almost preternatural insight on people’s moods.  

“Mary.” Mr. Neal said and she had never heard that tone in his voice. It was not his usual calm, soothing tone of voice, his accent slipped, “You have known me for a long time, now. You know I _always_ keep my promises. You have nothing to worry about. You will have what you asked for, once again, I give you my word.”

That was true. Mr. Neal had always kept his promises. He had always given people exactly what they asked for. He took care of his people. He destroyed his enemies, that was why people – were loyal to him, herself included. And loyalty was something she never particularly cared about.

“I know.” She said. She touched her stomach, swallowing. “Speaking of promises…” She trailed.

“I gave you my word, didn’t I?” Mr. Neal said.

“Promise me again,” Mary said.

Mr. Neal sighed. She clearly heard him lit up a cigarette. He exhaled and said, “I promise you, Mary – but I sincerely hope that…”

“Oh, Mr. Neal – we both know how this will play out one way or another,” Mary said. She was smiling, “just keep your promise, please!”

That was the third time in her life that she begged. She had begged a God she didn’t believe in to let her find Alex alive, and Mr. Neal, twice: the first time to let her have the job, the specific task of distracting the Holmes brothers and now – she was asking him to keep another promise, one he had made almost  a year before.

“I will. Good luck, Mary.” Mr. Neal said and disconnected the call.

She relaxed against the thin pillow. The man took the phone away from her, without saying a word.

She remembered the night Sherlock had come back; she would always remember the look in John’s eyes when he realised that the waiter with the French accent was the man he had mourned for two years. She had seen him mourn for a long time. She had heard him when he thought she was asleep – and for a moment, a tiny moment, she had felt pity for him, for his heartbreak: it was genuine, it was a deep wound that she had only partially cured.

She had watched as both men looked at each other, Sherlock still bleeding, John clenching his left hand in a tight fist – and she had known that things would go exactly like planned. She remembered how calm she had felt while Sherlock looked at her, deduced her – and she had let him see what she wanted him to see.

That was how it had begun – that was how it would end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Molly was shaken. She was holding a cup of tea in her hands and Greg was on the other side of her office, his back against the window, looking at her. Sherlock narrowed his eyes: why wasn’t Greg close to Molly like he clearly wanted to do? Why was he in a corner of Molly’s office?

Greg hadn’t said a lot to John, only to come to Bart’s and that the small black box was not filled with explosives. John had told him in the car about the text and that he had done what he had been asked to do.

“There aren’t any bugs in our bedroom, John.” Sherlock had said, thinking, for a moment, about how quickly he had got used to that, how _normal_ it sounded and felt – as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the past five years yearning for the man sitting next to him in that car.

“Are you absolutely certain of that, Sherlock?” John had asked, “We have been spied on for a year and a half or did you forget it?”

“ _I_ was spied on.” Sherlock had replied petulantly. He hadn’t even known why he had said those words – anger had started to seep through the cracks: making his heart pulse in his throat and his senses too honed, almost painfully so.

“This is not about you, Sherlock. Not this!” John had said, his voice sharp, low.

It had been a lie, a blatant lie told very convincingly, but a lie nevertheless.

John had not said another word, after, but Sherlock had known that the man, his lover, had been still keeping something from him.

Now, in Molly’s office, he was looking at Lestrade, clearly seeing the worry ( _love_ – and how he had not noticed that before?) for Molly and the woman’s fear.

“What happened?” John asked.

“Just – another game, another –“ Lestrade drew a breath between clenched teeth and hissed, “fucking game!”

Sherlock followed Lestrade’s gaze toward a rectangular box on a trolley next to him.

He had known Lestrade for a long time, he didn’t remember ever hearing him lose control. It was a quality he had always appreciated in the man but, apparently, he wasn’t immune to anger and irrationality either.

It was a rectangular box, he could still see the wrapping paper and the bright yellow ribbon the box had been wrapped in. He had seen a card on Molly’s desk, with big  balloons on it.

“Why did you open it?” Sherlock asked without looking at her.

“It was on my desk when I came back from the loo,” Molly said.

Sherlock turned and looked at her, “That is not what I asked, Molly.” He said.

Molly took a sip from her mug, “Mark and Jack were there, I thought –“ she trailed.

“You didn’t, obviously.” Sherlock replied, “Where is your protection detail anyway?”

“They are examining  the cameras’ footage. No one has seen who delivered the package. Not that it matters anyway, isn’t that right, Sherlock?” Lestrade said.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but didn’t comment on Lestrade’s words. Four highly trained operatives had been killed just a few hours earlier and Lestrade who didn’t even carry a gun (no, he was carrying one, he noticed, an unlicensed firearm, the same one he had used to shoot Herman Bennett in the basement) had chosen to stay in that office, with Molly.

It took him a second look to realise why Lestrade was in that particular point of the room: it was the only point that left Molly exposed to an eventual shooter. He looked at the man, furrowing his brow – it was _unusual_  for him not to understand things right away, not to see everything at once even though his senses were sharp as if he had shot up cocaine. It was unusual for him not to understand motivators as glaringly obvious as that one with barely more than a look.

 

_You were very slow._

He didn’t comment on both Molly’s stupidity and Lestrade’s actions. He could feel blood seeping down his back, and he had to check his right hand, for a moment, to make sure he could move his fingers. That – was not the moment to go to pieces. That was not the moment to let his mind splinter and the rooms in his mind palace getting darker and darker.

He opened the box, blinking twice at the sight of the two objects in it: a blue collar with a bell at the end of it and a framed picture.

John had moved, he was next to him, now, the words he had said in the car forgotten, his lies hovering between them, intangible and toxic.

“Is that…” Sherlock started.

“Toby’s collar. Yes.” Greg said.

“And that’s my dad,” Molly said.

He knew. He had seen that picture in Molly’s bedroom, he had noticed that she kept that picture on her bedside table, half hidden behind a pile of books and a box of Kleenex, but not as much that she wouldn’t see it if she wanted or needed to.

“The cat is fine, they didn’t touch anything – they just took the picture,” Lestrade said,   
“At least that’s what the other two agents that are _supposed_ to protect Molly claim.”

“They obviously wanted to scare her,” Sherlock said, “but they mean no harm to her.”

“I don’t _care_!” Lestrade said. He hadn’t raised his voice, not that time, but the fury filled every word he had uttered.

 “Greg told me about Mary –“ Molly said, speaking, interrupting Lestrade.

She was talking to John, she was pale and she had obviously cried (and judging by the hair on Lestrade’s jacket he must have held her), but she was mostly worried about John, now. And she had wanted to defuse the situation.

“Thanks –“ John said giving her a tight-lipped smile.

Lestrade who had seemingly temporarily forgotten about that seemed contrite, for a moment. Molly had been threatened, her flat violated, but Sherlock had the suspicion (not a deduction, more like a guess because John had been right that night, the night he had killed a man for him: he did guess, from time to time) that the gesture had been done not to hurt him, that time, but Lestrade.

The truth was that despite the word he had said to Mycroft the previous evening, all the people he held dear were still in danger.

 Herman Bennett had told him, during their tedious meeting, that _they_ were everywhere. They truly were, apparently, which posed an interesting question: how long had all of that had been planned?

“She will be safe from this moment on, she will be moved to a safe house, would it make you feel better?” Sherlock said.

Lestrade nodded his head, but it was Molly who spoke and said, “I am _not_ a coward!”

Sherlock turned toward the woman. Molly was clearly scared, he could see the thin veil of perspiration on her forehead, how she was swallowing and twisting her hands, but she was also resolute.

“No,” Sherlock said, stepping away from the trolley and looking at the woman, “you most certainly are not. But you are _not_ expendable, Molly Hooper.”

Silence fell in the room, it was heavy and Sherlock was acutely aware that the three people in the room were looking at him. He gave a nod of his head to Greg, who seemed satisfied with his words.

“We should think about the black box…” Molly said.

 _Right._ The other box, the reason for which they had had to go and see Herman Bennett. Something else was seeping through the paralysis that had enveloped him since he had seen the CCTV footage: it was relief.

He felt like breathing was, somehow, easier. He felt like he would stop smelling that putrid odor, eventually. He blinked his eyes. That did not matter, what had happened in the basement and the words the man had told John, were unimportant.

“There are no explosives – but …” Lestrade trailed. And Sherlock saw – he saw that the man had been there at Barts for hours, he had been with Molly, drinking coffee (Molly had lied, but it had been an unimportant lie) while someone had brought that wrapped box to Molly and there was guilt in his eyes. He didn’t care. Lestrade was a grown man, he would have to deal with his feelings on his own.  

“Where is it?” Sherlock asked.

Molly opened a drawer of her desk and took the box: it was wrapped in an evidence bag, she held out a hand and Sherlock noticed that she was trembling, but she was right: she was not a coward. She was a friend and she wanted to be there, with them. She had been scared even the day he had faked his own death, but she had helped him – and he owed her his life, John, and Greg too.

Sherlock unwrapped the box, noticing that no one moved, even John didn’t get close to him. He inserted the numbers that Mr. Bennett had given to John and, of course, the box opened.

John, Lestrade and Molly moved, Sherlock noticed, almost as an afterthought, that Lestrade was right behind Molly, shielding her body with his own.

He blinked his eyes: another finger, Victor’s, it was his pinky finger, that time, the right one, within a plastic bag, nested in almost melted ice.

“Oh, God…” Molly said.

Victor was still alive. There was that. They weren’t done with him, he was losing his position as leverage, though – he would be killed soon if he didn’t find him. He didn’t even realise that he had flinched when John touched his back, but everyone else did.

It was not what John thought, though. His back hurt – he had pulled stitches, he was bleeding, and he could not stop, now. There wasn’t time. He looked at John and didn’t care, for a moment, whether the man had thought that his flinch was due to something else. He would explain, later.

But when he saw the mobile phone, tightly wrapped in plastic, underneath Victor’s finger he knew that he would not have time to explain.

He let Molly, who was wearing gloves now, take the plastic bag with Victor’s finger. He took the mobile phone from the plastic bag.

“Careful…” John said.

John – John was still worried about him, their bodies had been so close, in that bathroom, he had felt the man’s breath against him, he was his lover – and he had lied to him, was still hiding things from him, his voice had been harsh, in the car, when he had told him that it wasn’t about him, that time. And Sherlock wanted him to be away, far away from there – where he would be safe, where he wouldn’t have to see, hear, witness what he would do when he’d find the people behind all of that.

John – touched him again, and despite the pain (what had he done? He didn’t remember – he had trashed Herman Bennett’s cell as he looked for clues, but what – _what_ had he done?) he didn’t flinch that time.

He switched the mobile phone on; it was password protected. Four blank spaces (four people in the room).

Later he would think that it had been obvious, really. He would think that Molly had never been truly in danger, that they had wanted to destabilize Lestrade and have them all in the same room when the texts came.

The texts arrived at the same time, in the silence that had fallen in the room the four chirps sounded too loud. The first one who got a text was Molly, the second was Lestrade, then John and finally him.  They all exchanged glances and Sherlock wanted, again, to take John away, to have him brought to safety, kicking and screaming if necessary. He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything.

“Sherlock –“ Lestrade said. The question was implicit in his eyes: what do we do?

“Molly?” Sherlock said, “what does your text say?”

Molly nodded. She was not a coward, but she was terrified, now. They had kept her away from everything that had happened since Jason Miller’s body had been found. Lestrade had protected her – but so had John and him. They had sent Mrs. Hudson away, she had protested, but he knew that she was in a safe house, that no one could or would touch her. He should have done the same with the others, long before giving Mycroft the ok to implement the other actions – not that it was making any difference, not at that point.

“Zero,” Molly said.

Sherlock nodded as he inserted the first number.

“Nine,” Lestrade said, his voice had dropped.

For a moment all Sherlock could see was Lestrade getting into that room, in the basement; he was the first one who entered the room. He remembered, more clearly than he had for weeks, the look in the man’s eyes as he shot Herman Bennett, how he had unchained him, without saying a word, keeping his eyes fixed on his face. He blinked his eyes and focused on the present, on that room, on the mobile phone he was holding in his hands.

“Two,.” John said, breaking his train of thoughts.

Sherlock took his mobile phone from his coat’s pocket. He had got a text and there was just a number, no other message.

“Eigh,” Sherlock said.

It was the right combination of numbers, of course.

“Sherlock,” John asked, “these numbers…”

“Are meaningless” Sherlock said, he turned (his back hurt – it was definitely not the worst he had ever experienced, but he was acutely aware of the blood, still seeping down his back and the throbbing between his shoulder blades and further down), John was staring down at his left hand, at the black phone he was holding.

He had seen that look in John’s eyes before, during chases, in a swimming pool while wearing a vest filled with semtex: John, the soldier (the father, the lover) was ready to go to war. But that wasn’t _his_ war. He was, he had become – _their_ weapon.

“What it matters,” Sherlock said, after what it felt like hours of silence – even if it couldn’t have been more than a second, “is that they knew we would all be in the same room and they know our phone numbers.”

“Are they watching us?” Molly asked.

The alert of an incoming text interrupted Sherlock before he could answer her question. He ignored the fact that both Molly and Lestrade had gotten closer, to hear – to look – to witness.

There was a link in the text. He exchanged a glance with John who nodded his head and Sherlock clicked on it. 

The image was surprisingly clear and not in black and white: there was – a man, wearing a ski mask and sunglasses. The background was completely white, it was – familiar, in a way, similar to what they had done with Joan, but that hadn’t stopped him, he had found the woman, eventually.

It was also different –

“Don’t bother to try and trace this.” The man said. He recognized the thick Russian accent in his voice (he must be from Moscow), he was tall, he had broad shoulders and strong arms under that black turtleneck he was wearing. There was an air of defiance about him, of being sure of doing the right thing, not dissimilar from what he had seen in Herman Bennett and the men at Scotland Yard.

The people he had met that had worked for Moriarty had been scared of him, they had met him through contacts, they had been – desperate or greedy. Whoever was behind the people he had met for the past few weeks was different. That much he could see, observe.

Sherlock nodded his head. Even though he had noticed out of the corner of his eyes Molly’s protection detail, one of them was already on the phone. It would probably be useless like every other attempt had been since Jim Moriarty had shown his face on every screen in the country, but it was worth a try.

“I won’t,” Sherlock said.

“You already are – and I told you: it will be a waste of time, Sherlock.” The man said. He heard the man’s smile in his words when he said, “So let’s make this interesting.”

He spoke in Russian after, he told him to pay attention, to watch, to deduce and then disappeared from the screen, he heard the steps, a couple at most, he reappeared a moment later bringing Mary with him, he was dragging her; she looked like she could barely stand on her legs (epidural – its effects had just started to fade, he observed.), the man had no troubles making her sit on a chair, she didn’t oppose, she didn’t try to fight the man. Mary had never been stupid. Sherlock saw that the cuffs were already there on the armrests of the chair.

Mary didn’t try and do anything, she let the man cuff her to the chair; she looked disoriented, she looked exhausted.    

“Watch.” The man said. 

“John…” Mary said. Her voice came out hoarse, nasal.

She was – red, blue and purple bruises, her hair was matted with sweat and blood against a white background: she had been hit, repeatedly, there were bruises on her face, on her neck, and what he could see of her right shoulder showed  clear imprints of fingers, clear like a stain of blood on a wall. Her right eye was completely swollen shut, her left eyes were bloodshot and there was still blood trailing down from her nose.

“Mary…” John said. He had loved her. She was the mother of his child – and John only breathed her name. He didn’t say anything more.

Sherlock heard the shock in the man’s voice, he could feel him trembling, he had seen – he must have seen that she wasn’t pregnant any longer.

“My name – my real name is Emily,” Mary said. She swallowed. Was it a lie? Sherlock couldn’t tell. She was in pain, that was the only thing he could say for sure. She had fought before, though –  but she was _hollow,_ now _._

He wasn’t sure whether she was saying the truth and it didn’t really matter, did it? There was a gun pointed at her head and the man who had talked during the first call was holding it. He recognized the hand, the long, dirty nails. There was someone else in the room, the person who was holding the device recording what was happening.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked.

Mary looked up at the man. She wasn’t the woman he had met in that restaurant, she wasn’t the woman who had shot him in Magnussen’s bedroom or even the woman who had come to Baker Street, looking happy, proposing a deal.

Mary wasn’t scared because if there was one thing he was truly sure about Mary – the  Emily or whatever he name was, was that she was not scared at the moment. She didn’t even look resigned, she looked like it wasn’t the first time she had a gun pointed at her head and she didn’t care whether it would be the last.

“Everything.” The man replied in Russian.

“Where is she?” Mary asked, her voice cracking, a hint – just a hint of grief in her voice.

The man grabbed her by the hair and a second later they all saw him hitting her with the butt of his gun, twice. When Mary’s face was visible again, new blood was gushing down from her nose and the man was telling her to shut the fuck up, still speaking in Russian.

“What is he saying?” Lestrade asked, but Sherlock ignored him. Did John know Russian? Why wasn’t he talking?

“They took my baby!” Mary said, defiance and grief in her voice. Tears trailed down her cheeks, “They took the baby.” She repeated, slowly. _My_ baby, _the_ baby – yet it was clear she had been talking to John.  

 There was genuine sentiment in the woman’s voice, she was telling the truth, and it was abundantly clear from her stomach underneath the white shirt she was wearing that she wasn’t pregnant any longer.

There was blood on it, a lot of blood and Sherlock saw that her wrists had been cuffed to a chair with regular handcuffs. No duct tape for her, no warehouses, no messages left on walls with her own blood.

That – was different.

“Mary –“ Sherlock said, “we will find her.”

Mary’s chin trembled, new tears trailed down her face, “Promise me.” She said.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked. He felt John tensing next to him and Molly let out something that, he was sure was a, “what the fuck?”

Mary blinked her eyes, she tried to turn toward the man who was holding the gun to her head but was pistol-whipped, again.

The man spoke, telling him the exact time and date.

“We only broadcast live,” The man said, “We all watched it live while you were taking it up the ass.”

He saw Mary closing her eyes and chose to focus on her, on the gun pointed at her head, on the man who was speaking, even though he was aware that they were trying to trace the call. He didn’t care.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, again.

The man didn’t reply for a moment, he saw his finger on the trigger, how firmly he was holding the gun. He was not an amateur. None of the people he had met until then were. Herman Bennett had known how to use a razor, he had known how to hurt people, he had been admittedly good at it.  The four men who had kidnapped Joan had been good, professional thugs, clearly paid to do a job – the two men who had killed Janine were highly trained, ready to be caught – and that man – he knew there would be no hesitation, he would not make mistakes either.

The man spoke, he had a nice, deep voice. He said the names of all the people closest to Sherlock and their addresses, he told him the address of the safe house where Mrs. Hudson was residing, he even mentioned Anderson and his home address.

“That is exactly what we want, Sherlock.” The man said.

Every person he had met, every person he had cared for – his _parents_ , Mycroft – old clients who had become something more, like Angelo. That was what they wanted.

“And then what?” Sherlock asked.

John grabbed his arm, his hold was painfully tight. He stopped him before he could say more, before he could ask what would they do with him. It was obvious, after all, but there was Mary to think about.

The man didn’t reply for a moment when the shot came, loud and deafening in that room, even if broadcasted through a mobile phone, Molly let out a sound – a cry, perhaps, or a whimper, he wasn’t sure.

He saw, as if in slow motion, the man pulling the trigger, the spray of blood painting the white background crimson red, Mary’s head lolling on a side, her eyes open, unseeing.

“Choose.” The man said and then the video feed ended.

He felt Lestrade, Molly and John taking steps back, he heard them breathing – he felt, achingly, the fact that John had taken a few steps back from him, that he was breathing softly: in and out, over and over.

He wasn’t sure he could breathe, not properly.

That last word – that wasn’t for him. Even the dumbest, densest criminal would know that he would choose John, he would always choose John over everything and everyone, including his daughter.

No. The message was for John.

They had killed Mary in front of them – but he could still save his own daughter. He had to choose. He had to pick a side.

He looked at the man: his lover, his flatmate, blogger, companion, best friend – and it was suddenly clear what John had hidden from him, what he hadn’t told him, why he hadn’t looked at him for hours and the harshness in his voice; he had known that would happen.

His life for his daughter’s. And John had picked a side. He had chosen to save his daughter. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft had warned him that Sherlock wouldn’t understand and truly see and that it was their best hope, their only shot at keeping both Sherlock and the baby alive. They hadn’t had much time to talk before Sherlock came back from Herman Bennett’s cell, but John suspected that Mycroft had already a plan, a strategy in motion when he had come to Baker Street.

He didn’t particularly trust the man’s plans, the last one he had been part of, the last time – with Jim Moriarty and that phone call that had brought him away from Bart’s and the one with Sherlock: his note, his last words,  had nearly destroyed both   
Sherlock and him, but what other choice did he have, really? Mycroft had told him that it was just a matter of time (which was a luxury they didn’t really have, he specified) before his brother realised what they had asked him to do thus sentencing both Sherlock and his daughter to death.

They could have killed Molly instead of scaring her, they had wanted them to know that it didn’t matter which measures Mycroft had implemented, which code word Sherlock had said the night before; they were not safe, none of them were.

 The man who had shot Mary (part of him, a big part of him, was grieving and he truly couldn’t stop and think about what had happened) had said the names of people both Sherlock and him knew – people in their lives, people Sherlock had helped, former clients, his parents – and Sherlock had just blinked at the man’s words. He had asked, “And then what?” and John had wanted Sherlock to shut up, he had wanted to throw that bloody thing on the floor and stamp his foot on it to stop hearing and seeing. Touching Sherlock, stopping him from talking had given him balance, for a moment.

And  Mycroft had – expected all of that. He had warned him, with brief, cruel words.  And if he hadn’t seen, with his own eyes, if he hadn’t felt how much what had been done to Sherlock for the past few weeks had hurt Mycroft, to the core, he would have been tempted to think that he was the one behind everything.

Mycroft’s words had been harsh – they had been ice and iron and a promise of blood and vengeance when he had talked.

With Jim Moriarty, Mycroft had been impeccable, John had believed he would sell his brother out, he had believed he didn’t care enough about Sherlock to save him, to save his reputation, to stop Sherlock from killing himself. He knew better, now. He knew that Mycroft had been a cold son of a bitch, but he had made sure that his brother lived, that he survived – that Mrs. Hudson, Greg and him would be safe. He had also ripped his life apart, but he had made sure that Moriarty could not kill him.

That time was different, that time what was happening was hitting Mycroft in ways Jim Moriarty hadn’t. It was extremely _personal_ for Mycroft Holmes, and if Sherlock was the East Wind, Mycroft Holmes was – a tsunami, a hurricane, something that could not, would not be stopped.

What he had suggested was cruel – it was a form of manipulation that only a Holmes could come up with, it was – making his temples throb and eyes sting and his throat become dry and taste like sand and blood.  

But it could work. It had to.

“They might kill me right away and torment Sherlock sending pieces of my body for however long they want to, you know that, right?” John had said.

He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be used as a pawn, again; he wanted to wake up and find out that it had been a nightmare, one even worse of those where he was the one torturing Sherlock, using his back as an ashtray or to check whether whips and knives and hooks still did what they were supposed to do or the ones where he was in that basement and hurt Sherlock.

“They won’t. That is not what they want – they will want Sherlock to find you, alive.” Mycroft had said, “Right now, thankfully, he can’t see, this is our only chance, John.”

Mycroft had been right, though – Sherlock’s blindness could only be temporary, the best they could do was to –

_Just a magic trick…_

deceive him – and Mycroft had told him how.

It was working. John read it in Sherlock’s eyes. He saw the moment where the realization set in, the moment the deception  made its way into Sherlock’s mind and its seed started to bloom.

 

_You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home…_

 

 Sherlock was looking at him. He knew that Molly and Greg were as well, but – he could feel Sherlock dissecting him. Mary was dead. That man, who had spoken in Russian, who had taunted Sherlock, who had said that they had all watched him being raped,  had shot Mary through the head. He would think about that later, though – he had to _soldier_ on and do what he had to. Even if it was a trap, Mycroft would find a way, that was what mattered.

He touched Sherlock, he was still holding the mobile phone in his hand, he was too pale, he recognized the lines of pain at the sides of his mouth, he had seen them too many times not to spot them right away by now, even if Sherlock blinked his eyes and those lines disappeared when he realised he had been looking at him and  his whole face and eyes were blank, cold.

“We will find her…” John said, “we have to…”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes.” He said. He was doing exactly what Mycroft had anticipated he would do. There was something that Mycroft had not anticipated, though: Sherlock was in pain.

“Do we have a plan?” He asked.

Sherlock looked at him like he did sometimes when he thought he had said something incredibly stupid, but he was also studying him, he was trying to understand how he had made his choice, how he would betray him.

“Sherlock?” He asked, again.

Greg and Molly were looking at them, and John was aware of the four men outside Molly’s office.

Sherlock ignored him for a moment and said, “Molly, you will be brought to a safe house. Lestrade –“

“I’m not going anywhere…” Greg said, “I just saw a woman being killed – I will not hide!”

Greg did not know that Mary had shot Sherlock, he wasn’t sure about what he had been informed of for the past few weeks, but it was obvious that he didn’t care about what Mary had said about her real name; he only cared about the fact that he had witnessed a murder in cold blood and he wanted to catch the killer. He was a copper, he was a good man.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but Greg said, “I mean it, Sherlock: it is John’s daughter we are talking about – I am _not_ hiding. I can take care of myself!”

And Mary had been an assassin, escorted by four MI5 agents and they were all dead. William Moore was a former MI6 agent who had relented and stopped fighting because he couldn’t bear to see his fiancé in pain and Sherlock was going to pieces, right in front of him because he believed, now, that he would betray him, choose his daughter’s life over his. They were fucked. They were all fucked.

“But – just in case,” Lestrade said, “I would appreciate if my kids were brought somewhere safe.”

Kids. He had a daughter – they must have induced Mary’s labor, judging by the way she had moved, she had been given an epidural and probably a c-section. As far as he knew Mary had not had any problems during her pregnancy.

In the short weeks they had been together after Christmas she had shown him her prenatal scans, he had gone with her to doctor appointments – and everything had gone swimmingly, but – that was _before._

“Mr. Holmes, sir…” It was Harris, John wondered whether Mycroft had already briefed them, whether they knew what to do, but he doubted it – Sherlock might be blind, at the moment, as far as _he_ was concerned, but his powers of deductions were still working on everything else.

Sherlock looked at the man and hissed, “What?”

“We couldn’t trace the call and the video feed origin, but we were able to download it – your brother is on the phone, he needs to speak with you.”

Sherlock looked at him, for a moment, a flicker of _(_ love, heartbreak, devotion, hurt) sentiment passed through his eyes but it was gone too quickly, replaced by a calm, calculating look.

“Of course.” Sherlock said, “I’ll be right there.”

“Your brother says it’s _urgent_ , Mr. Holmes,” Harris said. He was loyal to Mycroft Holmes to a fault, just like Drake. They would do their part.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

He left the room and John noticed the way he was holding his back as he walked – he was in pain and if it was showing it meant that it was bad.

“John…” Molly said when Sherlock got out of the room, “I’m so sorry…”

John nodded his head, but he was looking at Greg. He too had looked at Sherlock as he went out of the room.

Greg took a step, and said, “it’s not his fault, you know that.”

“I know it isn’t–“ John started, but Greg interrupted him saying, “I know – I know, but he does.” The man moved another step and said, “I don’t know what’s going on – but I want to help. _Really_ help.”

He meant it. Greg had been threatened, but he didn’t seem to be overly worried about that, about his own safety; for the past few weeks, he had been there, for them, listening to the things Sherlock had not allowed him to know, seeing scars and death and threats. He meant it. He wanted to help.

Greg had blamed himself for Sherlock’s suicide three years before. He had never said it aloud, they had rarely talked about Sherlock when they had met at the pubs, once every couple of weeks because – _because_ he had not wanted to, because it had been hard enough to pretend he could live without Sherlock, talking about the things of his nightmares would have made it impossible. And Greg had been a friend, he had made him smile, even if those smiles had been fake, even if he always ended up drinking himself to sleep whenever he got home after a night at the pubs with Greg.

Greg blamed himself for what had happened to Sherlock – because there had been a fuck up of epic proportions and Bennett had taken Sherlock. Greg was exhausted, he was worried about Sherlock, terrified about Molly nevertheless he was there, he wanted to help. He had told him, at the hospital, that they wouldn’t be alone that time, and he still meant it.

And he was sure that if he told Greg what had happened, what was at stake, what he had to do to save his daughter and Sherlock – he would put him in danger, he would put everyone in danger, even if Greg would undoubtedly try and help.

“I know, Greg.” He said.

 Mycroft could – would use him as well, _after_. He had seen that Drake had been observing them, on the threshold. The older man had seen and heard everything.

“Where do we start?” Greg asked.

“Mary was eight months pregnant – they will have needed to stimulate her labor and of an incubator, an obstetrician too.”

“Somewhere isolated where no one would hear what was going on.” Lestrade said, “how long have they planned this?”

John shrugged, “I don’t know.”

He didn’t touch his mobile when he felt the vibration alerting him of an incoming text.

He suspected that he would find out soon, very soon, how long they had been planned all of that – it was his job to make sure that they failed. That they would not kill Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

The first spasm  had come while he was talking on the phone with Mycroft. It was not just torn stitches, then, he must have moved too quickly, too rashly while in Mr. Bennett’s cell. He had forgotten – truly forgotten that he was not (whole) healed, yet. His body still wasn’t in peak condition, as John and the other doctors at the hospital had repeated ad nauseam.

It didn’t matter. He had talked to his brother, listened to what he had to say, been informed on the few meaningless progresses his people had made. He had not asked anything else. He had not asked him whether he knew what Herman Bennett had whispered to John before he died, what  John had told him before he came back.

Mycroft had sent him on a suicide mission two months before. He had given him two choices at the time: spend the rest of his life in jail for murder, in one of the government’s facilities or the mission he had told him about, the one that would kill him in six months.

He had accepted the latter, of course.

Part of him – the man who had spent two years  dismantling Jim Moriarty’s criminal empire was seeing the bigger picture, now. Mary’s execution had been planned, everything had been planned to destroy him – but _why_? Because he had destroyed Moriarty’s web? Or because having his life taken away from him, bit by bit, would make him weaker, blind and _useless_?

He had blinded a man, once. It had been _unpleasant,_ but necessary. He had killed people because no one could know he was still alive – no one was supposed to know. Jim Moriarty had been a spider, weaving a complex net that had almost dragged him down more than once – but he had survived, he had come back – and he had not truly cared about the game, hadn’t he? 

There had been cases, sure, some of them had been interesting, but he had been _distracted_ , he had – planned John’s wedding, he had solved client’s cases, ignored things, a lot of things, things sealed shut in his mind palace, things that he would have investigated on in the past. He had let things slide – because time, sometimes, had flown by without him noticing. He had not been the man who had jumped from that rooftop or even the one his brother had rescued in Serbia.  

And Mycroft – must have reached the same conclusion he was seeing so clearly, now: distraction, obfuscation, misleading. But why?

 Oh, he had no doubts that whoever was behind everything that had happened since he had been called to help Lestrade with Jason Miller’s murder had had a lot of _fun_ – but that was just the tip of the iceberg, wasn’t it? There had to be more. Their endgame was to kill him, that much was clear – but it was not just a personal element to it, it was not about Moriarty. It had never been.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “are you listening to me?”

“No, you are boring,” Sherlock replied.

And of course, of course, Mycroft knew that. Mycroft would use him, his own brother, as bait, he would let John make the only possible choice – to get to the truth, to try and understand who had taken Moriarty’s place.

He had been flogged in Serbia – and by Herman Bennett. He knew the feeling of skin piercing intimately. The second spasm was – worse, somehow, it came from within his body and its force caught him by surprise leaving breathless for a moment.

What had he done? He had trashed Herman Bennett’s cell, he had moved a lot – but, as a precaution, he had worn gloves, he had washed his hands, after, before going back to John and Mycroft.

What had he done?

He knew he had stopped bleeding, he would have to find the time to change, not that it mattered, since he was probably going to die soon; the pain, though, was a constant throb humming underneath his skin, it was – a nuisance now that he needed his mind to be sharpest than ever.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice took that somber quality he had when he was worried about him – or pretended to be. It didn’t matter.

“We will find John’s daughter – and whoever is responsible for this,” Mycroft said.

Yes. He would. He was the British Government, after all. He would deal with the newest threat, he would only have to sacrifice another sibling to his Country and find the new spider, the new criminal mastermind who had to get rid to the last vestige of Moriarty’s reign: the consulting detective that had been Moriarty’s equal, his obsession, the cause of his ultimate demise.

 Mycroft would lose his pressure point and things would go on: John would raise his daughter, his friends would be safe – there would be other games and other players.

“I ordered to have another autopsy performed on the guard’s body –“ Mycroft said and Sherlock breathed through the pain.

“Good. Lestrade wants his kids to be safe.” Sherlock said.

“I think…” Mycroft said, “that we have things to discuss, brother mine. You are starting to …”

“Later,” Sherlock said. He disconnected the call. Mycroft knew what he wanted, he knew what his instructions were, what it mattered to him. There was no point discussing semantics and the fact that they had been both played.

“Mr. Holmes,” Harris said, “are you all right?”

Another spasm. He had to swallow: perhaps it was psychosomatic, he thought for a moment. His scars had itched and throbbed and burned even if they were healing nicely, perhaps that was just – in his mind.

He was tempted to laugh at his thoughts. The pain was _real_ , he knew pain, was accustomed to it, and he supposed he had to do something about it.

“Yes.” He said. The man was clearly skeptic and didn’t believe him, but didn’t make any comment.

He moved. It felt like the first days at the hospital, or before -  when he had had to lay low and wait for his wounds to heal in some squalid room or in some safe house in countries whose names he didn’t even bother to learn most of the times.

He could walk, it was possibly just a few sprained muscles and his senses were too honed therefore he felt pain more keenly. He gritted his teeth and walked toward Molly’s office. He saw John putting his mobile phone back in his pocket while Lestrade and Molly were talking; agent Drake had the black phone and Victor’s finger in the box they had come from, he was giving the box to one of the men responsible for Molly’s protection – the items would be examined; he thought that he should be the one examining Victor’s fingers – he could find things that the morons working for Scotland Yard and for Mycroft couldn’t. He should – do something.

Another spasm hit him, in his lower back, that time, and John noticed it, they all did.

“I’m fine!” He said. He could feel John’s arms around him, he remembered that he had held him once, like that, when he had collapsed in their sitting room, the night they had confronted Mary – and Emily was definitely not her real name, he realised, as he drew in a deep breath.

“No, you are not!” John said.

“We are in a hospital.” He heard Molly say.

“I am perfectly fine…” Sherlock said.

He saw John swallow, his eyes getting big and bright, but his voice was steady when he said, “Please – don’t do this now. I can’t…”

What?

Did he mean to tell him that he couldn’t lose him? That he couldn’t afford to lose his ticket to have his daughter back?

It didn’t matter. He repeated to himself.

“Let me check you out – and then we’re going home. There is nothing we can do but wait  anyway, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. At least he knew where it would happen: Baker Street.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had accepted to be injected with local pain killers. He had sprained muscles in his back and some stitches had torn, but there was nothing broken, no internal bleeding, no damage to tissues or organs. He had, simply put, pushed himself to his limits. John thought that it was just another item to add to the list of things he would never forgive himself for. The fact that Sherlock had not refused painkillers like he had done for the past weeks was like a punch to the gut to John. It meant that Sherlock believed the lie – he was the smartest, wisest man he had ever known and he believed a bloody lie.

The silence between them as he tended his wounds had been deafening; Sherlock had not wanted any other doctor and he had insisted he closed the door of the small examination room before he had accepted to undress.

“I understand,” Sherlock said suddenly.

 _No, you don’t. You really don’t._ John thought, but didn’t say anything, he helped him sit, he would have to wear his bloodied clothes until they went back to Baker Street – he had no idea what would happen once they got there. They had ordered him to go back with Sherlock to Baker Street and wait; he had sent a text, immediately after, asking for proof that his daughter was still alive. The text had bounced back.

“Did they tell you if she is alive at least?” Sherlock asked, and John had to look down, at the man’s hands; Sherlock had read right through him – and that, that was too dangerous. The pain had subdued and he looked calm, now – he looked more lucid than he had seen him since that morning.

“No,” John replied.

It felt like being with Mary, weighing every word, fearing she would see right through the  façade, it felt – disgusting and yet another game they were playing to fuck with Sherlock’s head and he hated that he was the one doing it. He hated that Sherlock believed he would _ever_ sacrifice him.

“Ah…” Sherlock said. He gave him a small smile and said, “It’s worth a shot anyway. They won’t kill her. She’s…”

“Shut up,” John said. The words were stumbling over the lump in his throat, over the anger and the need he felt of kissing Sherlock, telling him the truth and find his daughter, together.

When Sherlock had almost collapsed in Molly’s office he had feared that – they had got Sherlock somehow, that he had touched something  in Herman Bennett’s cell and he had been poisoned. He had feared that it was the punishment  because Mycroft knew the truth. Sherlock had reassured him right away that he had worn gloves, that it wasn’t poison.

“John-“ Sherlock said, after a moment. He was holding his shirt in his hands and still had that small smile on his lips.

“I understand.” Sherlock repeated, “it’s logical. It’s –“ He tilted his head on a side and said, “it’s your daughter.” He looked at his shirt for a moment, he seemed to contemplate the patterns of blood on it while he asked, “What does Mycroft know?”

“Everything,” John said. It was the truth. Mycroft and Sherlock, but Moriarty and Mary as well had taught him through the years that truth could be easily manipulated, that one didn’t need to lie to succeed in deceiving a person.

Fact. He was Sherlock’s pressure point.

Fact. Sherlock had issues. Sherlock still believed that his life was less important in the grand scheme of things than his own.

Fact. Sherlock still believed that he, John Watson, could live without him, that he could move on, settle down and be happy, whole again.

Fact. It had taken just a few instructions from Mycroft Holmes, who knew how to manipulate Sherlock better than anyone, to do the same.

Fact. Those were possibly the last moments he would ever spend with Sherlock Holmes and the man was absolving him from what he had mistakenly deduced.

Fact. He couldn’t do a thing about it. He couldn’t let Sherlock see that he had never been more wrong in his life.  

Fact. He moved. He took the shirt from Sherlock’s hands, they were icy cold and his hands then trailed up, on the soft and scarred man’s skin, lingering, tracing the scars on the man’s forearms before he finally carded his hands through his hair and Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn’t flinch (John would have probably gone crazy, in that moment, if it had happened), his smile didn’t change even while he said, “Don’t make this more difficult for you, John.”

And John was suddenly _very_ angry – the anger had been there,  sitting in his gut, ever since he had read the text the previous night, it had started clawing its way up for the past few hours and he wasn’t sure he could stop it, now.

When had Sherlock started to think that being a martyr for him was a good idea? Why was it so easy for him to accept and approve the idea that he would ever trade his life for his daughter’s? Why wasn’t he angry at the thought that he would ever betray him?

“Sherlock…” John whispered.

They were alone. He could tell him the truth – they could face that threat together, the two of them, against the rest of the world. They could save his daughter – and  beat those bastards. He should tell him – Sherlock needed to know, needed to hear that he had been given two choices and he had chosen the only thing that had made sense to him.

He should tell Sherlock that he loved him – and he had, more than once, for the past few weeks, and even if Sherlock had never said it back it didn’t matter.

He expected Sherlock to shy away from him when he kissed him, softly, brushes of lips against lips, but the man didn’t. He sought his lips, licking and tasting him, like he had done the night before – as if they had time, as if he didn’t believe that he had accepted to trade him for his daughter – or he didn’t care.

“John…” Sherlock said, over and over, against his lips.

Sherlock had not touched him, his hands were still on his knees, while still sitting on that doctor’s table. He had not allowed himself to touch him.

“Sherlock…” He said. He was about to say more, he was about to tell him that he was sorry, so, so sorry – even if Sherlock would believe the lie, it would cement it in his mind because he had let sentiment cloud his judgment, when his mobile phone vibrated.

“Here we are…” Sherlock said. He smiled, again, against his lips, he stole a quick kiss and then gently, but firmly pushed him back, putting physical distance between them.  

He took his mobile phone from his pocket with numb hands. He had not been there during most of Mary’s pregnancy, fatherhood had been something at the periphery of his mind, something that hadn’t been truly real, even when he had been with Mary to the doctor and seen the prenatal scan.

It became very real – it made his heart clench painfully in his chest when he saw the picture attached to the text message he had received. His daughter was – _tiny_ and perfect. She had deep blue eyes and his lips, there was a butterfly needle attached to her head, she had sparse blonde hair, the same hue Harry had when they were children – and on her chest he could clearly see a digital alarm with the date and  the exact time, the picture had been just taken.

“Jesus…” He whispered.

 

_I’m not naming my daughter after you._

_I think it could work…_

“May I see?” Sherlock asked.

She was his daughter, a real person – who depended entirely on him. He was her _father._

“She has your lips – and Mary’s chin,” Sherlock said. He wasn’t smiling, now. He saw that he wanted to say something, ask him a question but decided against it. He gave him the mobile phone back and said while taking his shirt, “Would – would you mind?”

John swallowed. He had helped Sherlock dress and undress ever since they had left the hospital. It had become one of their rituals.

“Of course,” John said.

That could be the last time, he realised. Mycroft would try and avoid the worst case scenario, he had told him he would do his best and he believed him, but he was also aware that given the choice he would always put his brother first.

Blood was, after all, thicker than water.

 

* * *

 

 

He had lost himself again, Sherlock thought as the car brought them to Baker Street. If he survived the ordeal that was surely ahead of him, he might consider seeking help, professional help, he thought as he watched the road pass by.

He wanted to survive. He wanted to get his life back, however, changed and shaped by the events of the past few years it was. He wanted to look at the person or people  behind the past few weeks’ events and see them destroyed, he wanted to be there when they died, he wanted to be the one who ended their lives.  

He had called Anderson before leaving Bart’s, he had asked him to examine the video of Mary’s shooting with Molly. He wouldn’t have the time to examine it properly, and he had not been – lucid enough when he had watched it, but there was something  he couldn’t see, something that was clawing and screeching all over his mind palace and he didn’t know what it was about it – and he trusted them to see in absence.

John’s grip on his hand was tight, almost painfully so. He couldn’t help smiling and say, “May I confess something?”

John blinked, his lips turned into something that was meant to be a smile, but came out like a grimace, but his voice was light when he said, “I know that Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

Sherlock smiled and he realised that his smile was genuine, “That night – when we were handcuffed. Do you remember?”

“Sherlock…” John breathed.

“It wasn’t strictly necessary to hold hands,” Sherlock said.

He had known he would have to die – whether to take down Moriarty’s men or for real and he had acted on impulse. John had punched a man for him, he had run with him, he had become a fugitive – and he had not properly thought things through. There had been part of him that had wanted _that._

“Sherlock, listen…” John said. There was urgency in his voice – they were almost home, now.

“John…” Sherlock interrupted him, “it’s all fine.” He said.

He had looked at John on a Tarmac, sure he was going to his death, a violent death surely. He had already decided that he would find the nearest pusher once abroad and end things on his own terms. He had not spoken what had been just on the tip of his tongue, that day. He had shaken John’s hand, he had said stupid words to see John’s smile, and it had been fine.

It was still fine. It was logical. It was the voice of blood, it was a newborn baby girl, with deep blue eyes and blonde hair, whose resemblance with John was uncanny, there were no doubts she was his daughter.

He let go of John’s hand when the car stopped.  Funny how he felt like himself for the first time – in a very _long_ time.

The game was on.

 

* * *

 

 

John was not afraid.  He knew it wouldn’t be long, now. Sherlock looked – _fine._ He looked like the man he had been before falling from Bart’s rooftop and he might have fallen in love, all over again, with him on the way home.

It was a trap – he was aware of that, but the fact that Sherlock looked ( _whole_ ) more put together than he had looked for a very long time was giving him hope.

Once the car had stopped Sherlock had let go of his hand, agents Drake, and Harris didn’t get out of the car, there were other men outside four agents and, John suspected, others were hiding.

He had been to war and the air felt exactly like in Afghanistan: ripe with anticipation. They got out of the car and John looked around. He knew it would happen soon. He knew those were the last moments he would probably spend with Sherlock, and he didn’t look at the man: he looked straight ahead of him. He didn’t have a gun on him, he didn’t have anything on him except his mobile phone.

Two agents were flanking Sherlock telling him that Mycroft was waiting for him upstairs. Agents Drake and Harris were near him, but they were not in position, he noticed. Had Mycroft already informed them?

Yes, he had – he noticed that the men were keeping them apart. It was important, pivotal that Sherlock didn’t deduce what was truly going on. They were exposed, now.

His mobile phone started ringing a second before Mycroft opened the door of  Baker Street and stood on the threshold.

He answered the phone, the man who greeted him was the same who had killed Mary.

“Congratulations, Mr. Watson you are a father. Your baby girl is _beautiful_.”

He looked at Sherlock, he was surrounded by Mycroft’s men and the elder brother was talking to him. He was safe, for now.

“What do you want me to do?” John asked.

“Walk – turn the corner and get rid of your mobile phone, we’ll be waiting for you.” The man said.

“Sherlock won’t let me go. They won’t let me go.” John said. But Drake and Harris were nowhere near him, now, they were blocking Sherlock’s visual, “my daughter –“

“We will provide him with a distraction – your daughter will be safe. You’d better move now while your boyfriend can’t see you.” The man said and disconnected the call.

 They were watching them. It wasn’t surprising and they were right: Sherlock’s visual was blocked. Mycroft had ensured Sherlock’s protection, it wouldn’t be long until he realised what was truly going on.

John started to walk.

 

* * *

 

 

He was in that pool, again, for a moment. John walked in, wearing a parka and was saying things that didn’t make any sense.

He was in a room, in Istanbul, and he felt like acid had been poured on his skin.

He was in Chicago, in that old house, in that room with yellow wallpaper peeling off the walls and a big bucket of ice cold water on a table.

He was in Serbia, running and running, knowing that they would get him, that he didn’t have any weapon on him, that John, in his mind, was urging him to keep running but the balance of probability told him that he would be caught. He would be hurt.

He was –

He was on the ledge of a rooftop, fear like lava in his veins: Lazarus was a go, jumping was inevitable.

He was –

He was at Baker Street, surrounded by people: trained agents who were shielding him, Mycroft talking, saying things he couldn’t care less about. He could smell his own blood, he could smell those men: soaps, shampoos, skin –

John. Where was John?

 

_“I understand that he will not believe Moriarty’s claims, but that would be easier,” Mycroft said casually. Fourteen possible scenarios, only one contemplating his death. Thirteen ways of beating Moriarty at his own game, thirteen ways of feigning his own death. Mycroft was right if John believed Moriarty’s lies things would be easier, but John had not believed. John still trusted him._

_“A distraction – something drastic might be the solution,” Mycroft said._

He looked around – he saw the black car approaching, he saw the semtex all over it, like fairy lights on a Christmas tree, he saw who was driving the car and turned angrily toward Mycroft.

“What have you done?” He asked.

He was in his early twenties, again, and Victor Trevor was kissing him, under a falling snow, surprising him, even though they had skirted an invisible line for weeks, for months, perhaps, and Sherlock had simply conceded defeat and kissed him back.

He was in their flat as Victor packed his belongings and made noise, so much noise, as if the words he had said weren’t enough as if he wasn’t seeing that he was leaving him.

He was still, his feet on the kerb, surrounded by men as the black car was getting closer and Victor Trevor was driving the vehicle, his hands bound to the steering wheel, a detonator strapped to his chest, fear and pain in his eyes.

He looked around – where was John?

He had expected they would be separated, but – he had not expected _that._ He knew it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes since their car had stopped and they had got out of it. Why was Mycroft there? Where was John?

 

_“It will ensure his safety if, as we suspect, Jim Moriarty will target him. I wish you had made an effort to convince him, Sherlock.” Mycroft said._

_He truly sounded sorry that his flatmate, the man who had spent the past eighteen months living with him and watching him solve cases didn’t believe he was a fraud. John had warned him that the press would turn against him – at the time Mycroft and he had already started working on their strategy to bring Moriarty down, the possibility that the press would turn against him had been something he had counted on._

_“Such a shame that my flatmate would keep thinking with his own head,” Sherlock replied._

_“John’s loyalty could be his saving grace.” Mycroft replied, “and yours as well.”_

_It was rational, it made sense and Mycroft was right, as always._

_That didn’t mean he liked it. Fourteen scenarios (in a restaurant, years later, he would not mention the fourteenth to John, he would never know that they had taken into account one scenario that required his death) – thirteen illusions and John was essential in most of them._

 

The men were not surrounding him, now. They were going toward the car, there was so much semtex in it that it could tear the whole block apart. And he didn’t care.

It had to be now: he was exposed, wasn’t he? They could kill two birds with one stone: Mycroft was there as well (why?), they could get rid of the Holmes brothers who had defeated Jim Moriarty and had allowed someone else to take his place.

The air was still, cold, it would start to rain soon, and Sherlock was looking around because John had to be there. He was supposed to be safe that time. He had – made a choice and…

“Sherlock…” Mycroft said. The car had stopped, and Mycroft’s men were surrounding it. They were making phone calls, calling bomb disposal teams, they were trying to get Victor out of the car, he couldn’t see agents Drake and Harris and for a moment he thought that, perhaps, they were with John, keeping him safe, doing what they had been ordered to do.

Oh….

“Get in the building,” Mycroft ordered, “now!”

It was a nonexistent code, again. It was the vaults at Appledore – and before that: it was Victor making noise in their flat, wanting him to know that he was leaving – and maybe, wanting him to _stop_ him.

Agents Drake and Harris were there, now – pushing him inside the building, keeping him safe doing what they had been _ordered_ to do.

He didn’t fight the two men, his mind was putting together all the evidence, piece after piece.

_Sometimes a deception is so outrageous you can’t see it even when it’s staring you in the face._

John’s hands on his body that morning, his silences, the darker hue in his eyes, his voice – the grief and the remorse he had heard in it.

They got inside and Sherlock could see precisely how things had gone. John had told him he had deleted the text he had got and he had believed him because – because he believed in John Watson. He trusted him. But John had lied to him.

John had _not_ betrayed him, he had not chosen his daughter over him – even if it was the most logical assumption. John had – he blinked his eyes. Was it how John had felt when he had found out that he hadn’t died, that he had deceived and lied to him? Was the fact that his mind and body were at odds with each other – his mind going over the past few hours, all the details clicking together and it had been so _obvious_ , while his body was completely _still_ ; he knew there were people watching him, one of them was Mycroft, but he could _not_ move.  

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

He was about to add more, when one of the agents that had been outside got in, announcing that bomb disposal experts were on site and they were working on disarming the bomb.

“Don’t bother –“ Sherlock said, “it was just a distraction.”

His voice sounded perfectly normal, which was _good_ , he ignored Mycroft as he started to climb up the stairs. The shot of painkiller made his movements fluid, and Sherlock ignored the steps he could hear behind him.

Oh, Mycroft wanted to talk, didn’t he? He wanted to explain, he wanted to appeal to his rationality, to his intellect.

Sherlock wanted to kill his brother, at that precise moment – but that would mean having less time and means to find John, and that was what truly mattered.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft had known Sherlock had lost weight, he knew how much weight he had lost, but seeing him shirtless – was different. Sherlock had not closed the door on purpose, he had wanted him to see everything, he wanted him to see the details of what the last few weeks had done to his body.

His brother was changing his shirt, there were fresh bandages on his back, and he saw the pink lines of the  new scars juxtaposing with the older ones, the ones he had collected during his two years away.

Sherlock was not talking and Mycroft knew how dangerous his brother could really be when he didn’t speak, when he didn’t lash out, when he didn’t engage in childish tantrums and insults.

Mycroft moved a step and Sherlock talked, his voice was calm, casual, he was buttoning his trousers, he didn’t even look at him when he said, “Fair warning, Mycroft, if you enter this room I will break your nose.”

He was on the threshold, right outside – that was the room Sherlock and John shared, and he had known his brother would not accept John’s choice, his sacrifice and his role in it.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. He realised that he was leaning on the cane of his umbrella. It was a sign of weakness, it showed how tired his body was, but he didn’t care.

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, “you have been repeating my name for minutes.” He was still shirtless, he still had gauzes on his chest, even if they were not strictly necessary, he knew that his brother hated what Herman Bennett had carved on his chest. He noticed that he took a black shirt from a drawer and Mycroft wanted to –

He wanted to help his little brother and wasn’t that the rub?

Sherlock had noticed, the temporary blindness had faded, he was – aware of everything.

“Your nose, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, without looking at him, his voice still casual, still calm, but he wasn’t fooled and Sherlock knew he wasn’t.

He watched as Sherlock slowly wore the shirt, only when he started to button it did he look at him and said, “Is there a follow up to your saying my name over and over?”

“They gave him a choice,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded, still buttoning his shirt, still avoiding to look at him.

“Yes?” He said, “go on.”

“Either choosing between his daughter and your life or…” Mycroft trailed

“Or falling for a trap whose aim is to provoke my death anyway. Go on.” Sherlock said.

During the worst moments of Sherlock’s drug addiction, when his brother had spent whole weeks high on cocaine and morphine and ingenious concoctions that his mind had created, he had been almost like that: absolutely calm, willingly cruel to everyone who tried to reach him – but that was different.

“He chose the latter, yes. Of his own volition.” Mycroft said.

“And you have been privy of this tidbit of information since the beginning, you already knew this morning when you came here to tell us that Mary had been kidnapped. You waited to make sure John didn’t change his mind…”

“No –“ Mycroft said.

Sherlock spared a look at him and casually said, “Of course – we have been played since the beginning, you needed to check whether all your ducks were still in a row. Are they, _brother_?”

He said the last word mockingly, he had expected contempt, he had expected and accepted that Sherlock would not understand, but he was worried because Sherlock was beyond angry, now.

“No.” Mycroft admitted, “but you are right, we have both been played.”

Sherlock smiled, “Jim Moriarty had more class, he was suaver – his heir may lack his finesse, but I think that was rather the point.”

“I concur,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, mummy will be happy to know that for once we agree on something!” Sherlock said brightly. He took a black jacket from his closet and quickly put it on. Mycroft didn’t miss the curl of his lips – he must be in pain, painkillers notwithstanding.

“Sherlock, listen to me,” Mycroft said calmly.

“Am I allowed to be part of your plan, Mycroft? Will you be completely forthcoming? Tell me, how sure are you that John won’t be executed like Mary was?”

“It won’t happen,” Mycroft said. He sincerely doubted the outcome would be a televised execution. And Sherlock knew that too. He had to.

Sherlock smirked, “Of course, you are right – they will wait for me.”

He was beyond every state he had ever seen him since…he stopped his thoughts, the wanderings of his mind right away, but it was too late, Sherlock had seen him, read him. His movements were almost predatory when he got close to him, “I am curious,” Sherlock said, looking at him in the eyes and Mycroft knew he would go there, he would say what they had implicitly decided it was not to be said, ever.

“Would you be so cavalier and confident if your assistant had chosen to sacrifice herself for you? His hands went to his shoulders, to push him away from the threshold

“Possibly –“ Sherlock said, “does she know about the other one? Does she know what you did? She should.”

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked.

“You are the smart one,” Sherlock said, and the genuine hatred he heard in his brother’s voice scared him more than anything he had said.

“Deduce it.” Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft closed his eyes, for a moment. He had assured John Watson that he would not make the same mistakes twice.

He had failed.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well,” Mr. Neal said, to his interlocutor in the phone, “Did it go as planned?”

“To the last detail.” The man said.

“How is she?” Mr. Neal asked.

“Fine. Shaken but fine.” The man said.

“Good.” Mr. Neal said.

“Sir, will you be here?” The man asked hopefully.

“No.” Mr. Neal replied, “I have some errands to run here. You are all doing a good job. I’m counting on you. Do not disappoint me.”

“I won’t.” The man spoke, in Russian.

“Son, I really, really hope you won’t.” Mr. Neal said. He allowed a small smile on his lips. His wife said it was a heartthrob smile, the people who worked for him possibly wouldn’t agree with him.

“Let’s put this show on the road.” Mr. Neal said and disconnected the call.

He did have some errands to run – and a promise to keep, to Mary.

And he always kept his promises.


	18. ~ It's not the fall that kills you~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was real, he was Sherlock Holmes and for the first time in a disconcertingly long time, it meant something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still alive, still writing this mamooth that is now 200k and over 300 pages long. It took me forever to update for a few reasons: first I was robbed in August, the day before my birthday, and I lost my laptop, my kindles and my notebook, I had to rewrite half the chapter and some of my notes for the next two and final chapters.  
> Second: national teacher competition. It kicked my ass  
> Third: yeah, my current vicbourne obsession  
> I am halfway the next chapter, I fully intend to post all the fic before season 4 airs.  
> Thank you to those who are still reading this, and sorry it took me forever to update! Expect the next chapter within two weeks:)  
> ETA to correct one glaringly obvious continiuty error. That's what happens when your memory is crap and all your notes are stolen from you. Sorry *hangs head in shame*, I will edit this monster when I finish it --- shouldn't be long now:)

 

Light and darkness were swirling around him. He could feel them, coiling and uncoiling around him like silk and iron. He could see stars above him, through the huge cracks in the ceiling. The cracks had not always been there, of course; they were the result of  the chasm that had shaken the core of his mind palace, it had shaken it to its foundations and he was now assessing the damage.

Those stars – belonged to a precise moment in time, a precise night, of years before, Sherlock had stored away that moment: it had been unusual to see so many bright stars in London, and it had happened right in the middle of one of Moriarty’s games.

He had kept that memory, that moment, he had stored it and it was almost taunting him, now – while he walked down hallways and observed the damage to his mind palace: debris on the floor, cracks in the walls both on his right and left side, they almost looked like giant whip marks. How apt.

 It had felt like an earthquake in his mind. The paralysis, the relief, the images he had seen had all contributed to the disarray he was witnessing. On the outside, in the physical world, he had walked, talked, breathed – but he hadn’t been able to think, to see, to observe, to understand, not really, not when and where it mattered.

Sherlock was not used to that state of being: his mind was and had always been his best weapon, his intellect the only thing that had kept him alive, even when he had not wanted to.

 He kept walking, assessing the damage to his mind palace, closing some of the doors that had come unhinged – he knew there were others, other doors in the dungeons, he knew that in order to reach those doors, he would have to climb down countless steps filled with debris – and it was too late anyway to do anything truly useful, nevertheless he kept walking. He had to.

He had let it happen, all of it. He remembered when the first incidents in the dungeon had happened; he had felt some of the doors shaking, he had heard the cracks, but there had been too much to do at the time that he had to let it all slide.  Coming back to London and having to recalibrate everything had taken most of his strength: he had had to reacquire his old habits, the way he moved, talked because he had been a different person while away, he had had to move silently, to be a shadow, to adjust his voice and accent according to the place he was in.

He had had to adjust to his flat – it had been too empty and silent and while he had gotten used to silence and emptiness, he had not  been ready to accept that, in London.

He had had to accept that people (John) had moved on with their lives, while – he had survived, there had been times he had only wanted to survive to come back to his life. And the irony hadn’t been lost on him. The fact that he had hated that silence, that emptiness – that John-less space had consumed his energies, more than he had anticipated.

 He had ignored what had been taking place in those rooms, he had pretended that the doors hadn’t come unhinged and let out what he had hastily put in them. He had been so used to soldier on that he had not truly felt the effects of what had been taking place in his mind palace until much, much later.  

Oh, he had known that there were things that had refused to stay in the darkest, bleakest dungeons of his mind palace, that had refused to be deleted – but there hadn’t been either the time or the willingness to truly do more than take cursory glances at them and _pretend_ they were not there, pretend that he was the same man he used to be, pretend that he had not changed.

 The content of those rooms: images, sounds, textures and smells had been allowed to fester and to spread,  like cancer,  and that was intolerable. He was aware that keeping those doors tightly shut would not solve the problem, that he would have to go back and open those doors again if he wanted to actually come back to a reasonable facsimile of how his life used to be, but it was the best he could do at the moment. It was the only thing he could conceivably do.  

He could not afford the luxury of losing himself, not again. His weakness would result in John’s death – and that could not, would _not_ happen.

He was past  the point of ignoring things, of pretending everything was all right.  Things were  definitely _not_ under control,  and the chaos he could see in his surroundings was just further proof of it.

He kept walking: lights and darkness kept swirling all around him as he closed the doors and he saw the cracks in the ceiling and the walls disappearing on his passage. It was – a magic trick, it was by no means a permanent solution, but it would do.   

He stopped, for a moment, outside a room,  he wasn't yet in the dungeons,  there was too much light,  the walls didn't have that moldy quality to them he had come to associate with that part of his mind palace  for  the past eighteen months or so.

 It was one  of John's  rooms, he realised: it was warm,  cozy,  with a fire crackling  in the fireplace and the familiar noises of John moving in the kitchenette reaching him. He swallowed, hesitating for just a fraction of a second.

He shut the door. He had to.

 Even those memories (1th February of 2010: John had made tea and sighed at the eyeballs still in the microwave, but hadn’t otherwise commented), the good ones with John needed to be kept under a tight lid. It was paramount. It was what would save John.

There were still stars, belonging to a specific night; had he already been in love with John on that particular  night? 

It didn't matter, it didn't change the facts –  and those were the only things that mattered. But, yes, for the sake of accuracy, he probably had been, even if the realization had come later.  

He realized that it had been a very long time since had properly thought; since he had truly been himself.  Even before he had followed Herman Bennett he had forgotten whom he was.

 And it had happened again,  over and over, which was unforgivable; it had been so the first time and it was even more, now -- and that could never, _ever_ happen again.

He had reached similar conclusions for the past weeks, he had not realised, however, how deep the damage run. How pervasive it had become.

They had hurt him, weakened him, used him in every way they could and he had allowed it to happen, and now they were using John - to get him,  to complete what they had started with Herman Bennett.

The dichotomy between what was clearly their ultimate goal: destroy him and the means used to achieve it was not lost on him. One of the reasons for the tedious daily  meetings with his brother had been to determine the origin of the personal element to that strategy.

The truth was that the list of enemies who had personal reasons to want him dead was unsurprisingly long,  but the personal element was clearly just a means to an end.  

Even now that he would gladly and remorselessly kill Mycroft, he couldn’t help thinking about the fact that they had reached similar conclusions: they had both been played. And it had been surprisingly easy for those people to do so – and it was his own fault, he had allowed it happen. He could blame his brother for a lot of things, and he did – but that, what was happening was entirely his fault.

What was happening was what they had had in mind since the beginning -- having John as their bargaining tool and  having _him_ weak, confused and not _himself_.

His death (his defeat) was just a piece of a larger puzzle: Herman Bennett’s first victim had been killed shortly after his return to London, it had been a missing person case, one he hadn’t even noticed in the papers, one he hadn’t cared about, that meant that when he had finally decided to play dirty, he had been almost two years late: Mary and Janine were dead, John’s daughter was in peril, John had willingly fallen for a trap, Molly Hooper, and Lestrade had been targeted as well (Lestrade’s by proxy, but it didn’t make the threat less real to him, on the contrary)

 He had needed a few minutes to clear his mind after he had left Baker street, he had needed to remind himself that  they might have investigated on his past, they might have spied on him since his return to London,  they might know that John was his pressure point - who didn’t? It was the worst kept secret in London- but even if they were aware of the things he had done while being away, he doubted they knew what he could really do - what he was really capable of... but even if they did,  even if they knew the things he had done,  the lives her had taken,  the people  he had deceived,  they had no idea of what he was really capable of  at the moment. And it was simple,  really: _everything_. 

Nothing,  no one would or could ever hope to stop him.

He had needed a few minutes because he had needed to remember,  relive exactly what he  was capable of  doing.  The doors that had been bolted open, the ones filled with toxic _things_ , also kept - parts of himself:  the man he had been while away, who had left London sure to tear down a criminal empire without having to bleed or shed blood and had soon found out that things were different. Vastly different.

The people he had killed,  those who had begged for their lives,  the bones he had broken, the men and women he had followed, preyed upon were all there: he took everything in,  before closing the doors,  one by one. 

He didn’t feel remorse for what he had done – it had been necessary, it had been inevitable, he had had to survive, he had had to tear down Moriarty’s web and there had been no other way.

At least, that was what he was sure of most of the times. He closed other doors as images of what he had done, as the lives, he had taken reminded him that it was a war, Moriarty had started and he would have to finish it, once and for all.  

The doors were all closed, now. They would hold, the content, as toxic as it was, would not stop him doing what he had to do.

 He was calm, he was - _himself_ again: the man he had been before he had fallen from that rooftop, the - machine he had had to be  in order to survive while away and whatever he had become since his return and, most recently, after his 480 minutes with Herman Bennett. 

He was in a car which would bring him to the hospital where Victor had been admitted. There was another car escorting him and Sherlock thought that all those precautions were frankly ridiculous at that point, but he had not said a word about it.

He kept silent as Harris and another agent -- not Drake, he hadn't been there when he had left Baker Street, escorted him inside the hospital. The only good thing about the men escorting him was that they were dealing with people on his behalf; he really didn't have either the time or the disposition to deal with idiots.

There were two constables outside Victor's room. He had waited before going to the hospital, he had asked Harris to take the slowest route to get there both to sort through his mind palace and because he had been informed that Victor hadn’t been treated yet and, above all, he was still in shock and he truly didn't want to waste any time.

He hadn't been given a deadline, not yet -- but he knew it was only a matter of time before they did. There was no hesitation in his gestures, nor did he feel any, when he finally entered Victor’s room.

He hadn’t seen Victor for almost two decades, he was part of his past - of things he wasn’t particularly fond of remembering, of something he had actively tried to delete. It was so easy to admit, now, that Victor had broken his heart and that he had done the same to him - and the thing was he didn’t _care_.

He wasn’t sure he would have cared in any circumstance. Perhaps what he felt for John was actually making him more sympathetic than he would have otherwise been.   

He didn’t even particularly care about the state Victor was in: fractures, dehydration, blood loss and, of course, the two fingers cut off his hands.

Victor Trevor could perhaps have answers, there was a reason why he had not been killed, and it wasn’t just to provide them all with a distraction. He was sure about that.

 There was a sergeant from Scotland Yard, Sherlock didn’t even remember his name and was surprised that Lestrade wasn’t there, he hadn’t even been at Baker Street when he had left, nor had he been in touch.

The sergeant had the presence of mind of leaving the room immediately, for which Sherlock was almost grateful. Victor was sleeping; both his hands were bandaged and as he took a step forward, toward the bed, he noticed the bruises on his face, but he also knew that he wasn’t in shock any longer.

He was resting, his face might count more lines and there was more gray in his black hair, but Sherlock had no troubles recalling the man's face when he was in a light slumber. Not that he had wasted any time looking at the man sleeping at the time – but they had lived together, they had shared a bed. There had been a moment where imagining his life without Victor at his side had been inconceivable.

Facts had proved that he had survived perfectly well without Victor. Yet, he was sure, without any shadow of doubt, that were he to lose John he would not have such luck.

He blinked his eyes, it was no use to let his mind wander. He had to focus on the facts, on what it was in front of him!

 No one had filed a report on Victor’s disappearance either in the United States or in England - and Sherlock had only half listened to the information that had been given about the fact while in his presence, he hadn’t really _listened,_ but he had no problems retrieving the information,  now.

Victor woke up with a start when he took another step toward the bed; there was confusion on the man's  face and in his eyes as he looked around, Sherlock saw how the man for a moment didn’t remember a thing, he didn’t remember where he was and what had happened to him, it was just a moment and then he saw realization and recollections setting in and the surprise (pain,  disbelief,  relief,  fear) on his face when he looked at him.

Victor had always worn his heart on his sleeve, he had been incapable of lying,  except to his family  and he realized immediately that not much had changed in the man; he could still read him like an open book, he suspected that in that moment everyone could, it would not take having his deductive skills: embarrassment, regret, curiosity, anger, fondness were all dancing on his face, in his eyes and in the curl of his lips.

“Victor,” Sherlock said.

He was standing at the foot of the bed, his hands in the pockets of his coat. He didn’t allow himself to move or to do anything but looking at the man who had been his first lover, possibly his first real friend, and his heartbeat remained steady, he didn’t need to clench his hand in a fist to feel real, he could feel and see and observe everything.

 He was real, he was Sherlock Holmes and for the first time in a disconcertingly long time, it meant _something_.

Victor shook his head, Sherlock wondered whether the man was feeling a slight sense of vertigo or, perhaps, the sense that reality had been somehow altered.

Victor shook his head and said, “They told me you would come.”

“Who told you that?” Sherlock asked.

 It had been hard being with Victor at the time and to be perfectly honest he had not truly made an effort: he hadn’t known how to be a partner, how to be in a relationship, how to love him and he still hadn’t been - the man he had later become. He still had no clue about how to love properly, how to be in a relationship, how not to hurt the people he loved, but he had perfected everything else.

He  realised how cold and detached he might sound and look to Victor and he was satisfied. There was nothing personal, he had nothing against Victor, but it was nevertheless good not to feel like he was coming undone at the seams. It was good to feel his own body and thoughts.

“How the hell would I know?” Victor asked,  interrupting his musings. He had acquired more than a hint of an American accent and the disbelief and frustration in his voice sounded all too familiar.

Victor sighed and said, “They always wore ski masks - they weren’t really into talking...”

Victor had made an effort when they had been together: he had tried so hard to understand him and he had succeeded, apparently, or he had become easier to read or their connection, at the time, must have been deeper than he had thought because the man in front of him, looked at him for a second before he started to tell him everything he would have asked.

“I was here - in my family’s estate, I had to settle some business.” Victor started, and almost as an afterthought, Sherlock deduced that Victor had just ended a long relationship and had come to London after that, using family affairs as an excuse.

“Father died six years ago, mummy passed away three months ago,” Victor said.

He had never come out to his parents, Sherlock deduced. Not even after his father’s death.

He said that he was sorry for his loss, he wasn’t sure that he meant it, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He could be a bastard to Victor, an utter arsehole and get the information he needed anyway  - but that would not help John, and Victor had been dragged into that scheme because of him. He could at least muster some civility,  even if it was useless,  even it was a colossal waste of time.

“Go on,” He said after a moment, his voice came out cold, but not harsh. It took more strength than he had anticipated squelching any thought of how John would approve of his behavior.  

Victor looked at him, he was - _studying_ him and Sherlock regretted his approach, the choice of not being callous to the man when he saw a flicker of worry for him pass in the man’s eyes. He had forgotten how well Victor could read him.

“I went to sleep - and I woke up with a splitting headache in a room I had never seen before,” Victor said after a moment of hesitation when he noticed that he had followed his gaze.

Of course, Victor perhaps remembered how much he loathed pity, how _proud_ he was. He was past the point of caring about pride, though.

“Were you alone when you went to bed?” Sherlock asked. It was a routine question, actually. It made him feel in his element, even if he was asking the question to Victor and not to some stranger.

“Yes,” Victor said. It was the truth, the man was still unable to lie. He was still sincere to a fault.

He hadn’t missed the momentary look of confusion and anger at his question, though. He didn’t owe him any explanation. Asking questions was part of the _work_.

The work. It used to be the most important thing in his life: games, puzzles, codes, murders and mayhem. For a moment he felt tired, more tired than he had ever felt in his life. It only lasted a moment, though.

That was a game he had to win, at any cost.

“The room you were in...” Sherlock started.

“It was a regular room: white walls, concrete floor,  windows painted black, a bed, a chair, a bucket. The door had two bolts, and there was always someone outside. I couldn’t hear cars, so it must have been somewhere secluded. If I had seen the stars I might have deduced where the hell I was, but I couldn’t,” The man shrugged, "after they said your name - I started to memorize every detail I could, just in case -”

“And when was that?” Sherlock asked.

“When a Russian man broke my nose...he said that he had just got an idea about how to get Sherlock Holmes’ attention.” Victor replied, “I thought you would find me at first, and then - that you would find my body - pieces of it.”

He didn’t reply to Victor’s words. He had to clench his jaws not to. He wanted to tell him that he was sorry about his ordeal, and he was, but _sentiment_ had to wait. Sentiment would not help Victor, John, and his daughter.

“How many people were there?” He asked, instead. There was a reason why he had never made the mistake of caring about the victims. It was useless. It did not help them and it was confusing. He was not about to change that, not even for Victor.

“There were four men, for the first couple of days, but two of them went away the day before yesterday. At least I think it was; I tried not to lose track of time, but - pain..” Victor trailed. 

Victor  was clearly exhausted; he was fighting the effects of the strong painkillers he had been given to try and give him answers. He described the four men, he gave him each detail he could think of and, not surprisingly,  two of  them were most probably the men who had killed Janine.

“They never meant to kill you,” Sherlock said when Victor finished his tale.  

Victor let out a weak, bitter chuckle. He knew that sound, he had heard it a lot toward the end of their relationship, at the time he didn’t understand what it meant. Didn’t Victor know him? Didn’t he know that he was not like one of those brainless, pathetic excuses for human beings that they met every day?

He could see now what that sound meant: it was disbelief at something he had said.

“Didn’t look like that -” Victor said tilting his bandaged hands up.

It was a waste of time, like always with those people. It had been a waste of time talking to Joan Adams, forcing her to talk for hours about her ordeal, it had been a waste of time trying to trace phone calls and bugs’ signals,  and it was a waste of time to be in that room.

“Sherlock -” Victor said, breaking his train of thoughts. He knew that tone of voice too, he remembered it: it was the one that meant that there was something important he needed to tell him, like the fact that he wanted their relationship to be a secret, or that he had been accepted for a Ph.D. in the USA.

“Yes.” He said. He had said the same exact words to Victor in the past, but he wasn’t the same man.

“I have a message to deliver, ” Victor said, he swallowed and said, “they said it was important, that it was about John Watson.”

 _There_. The game was still on, still going, it was around them, in that room, and wherever John was at the moment.

 _Not with me._ He couldn’t help thinking and he had to physically restrain himself from blinking his eyes, from not delving further into those thoughts.

“Start from the house, Victor said, “ _his_ house. They said you would understand.”

Herman Bennett’s house, of course. It was where it had started, wasn’t it?

No, not really. It had started long before that. He was only starting to see it now,  but they had first showed their hands with Herman  Bennett.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” Victor asked. He sounded even more tired, and there was pain too in his voice - but he also sounded worried about him.

Victor had moved on, of course. He was clearly in love with someone else, he could still see the indent of a long worn ring on the ring finger of his left hand, and yet he still cared about him. He hadn’t lied to him during their last conversation on the phone, so many years ago. But then again Victor had never lied to him.

“I read John Watson’s blog - and your site,” Victor said, speaking before he could.

He didn’t move, his right hand was perfectly still inside his pocket, his scars didn’t itch or throb. He was calm, he was himself - whatever he had become for the past few weeks: the old, the bad, the machine, the killer,  the scars, the nightmares, the love for John - it was all there, as he didn’t move a muscle and looked at his first lover without saying a word.

“I think - I saw you once, while you were ‘dead’” Victor said and his lips curled in a small, sheepish smile, “I was in Bucharest, for a conference - I think I saw you getting in a black car that sprinted away. Was it you?”

He had been in Bucharest, he had got inside a black car - it had been his last stop before heading to Serbia. 

“Might be,” Sherlock replied shrugging his shoulders. Victor did not belong to his life any longer, it would be – a waste of time and a useless risk to involve him.

“Victor...” He trailed, he hadn’t asked most of the questions he would normally ask a witness, he couldn’t tell him about what was going on because Victor would require answers that he couldn’t give him yet,  but there was something he needed to know. “Who knew about our relationship? Did you talk about it to someone?” He asked.

“No one and it’s not something I usually talk about,” Victor said. There was sadness and surprise in his eyes when he said, “that’s the first time you said we had a relationship.”

“No, it’s not....” Sherlock said sharply. They had lived together, they had shared a bed, they had shagged and made love. Of course, they had had a relationship!

He blinked when he realised that Victor was right, though. He had never said it aloud. Victor might have wanted to keep their relationship a secret at the time, but he had never even admitted that they had one.

“I used to blame you for this. For everything, actually.” Victor said, after a moment of silence. And part of him wanted to leave that room, talking to Victor about a relationship failed decades before would not save John, it would not help find him and yet he couldn’t move a muscle.

Besides, Victor had said the truth, again: no one had known about them from him. Yet he said, “That is not why I am here...”

Victor nodded his head. He closed his eyes for a moment and then jerked them open and said, “There was a break-in at my apartment right after Christmas. They took the usual stuff, but - they also took the content of a drawer in my desk, it was mostly junk in there, but ...”

“I received the picture this morning,” Sherlock said right when Victor talked about it.

There was a moment of silence between them, it felt heavy and Sherlock knew that there was nothing else Victor could tell him.

“Someone will interrogate you soon,” Sherlock said, “you should rest, now.”

He turned his back and went to the door, but stopped, his hand on the handle, when Victor asked, “How are you, Sherlock?”

“Fine.” He said turning to look at him.

He recognized that look right away, he had looked at him like that in their kitchenette so long ago.

“No, you are not. And you were not fine with it, were you?” Victor said, and it unsettled Sherlock  the way Victor had so easily read through him, how that word had brought back something that belonged to the past and how they  had both thought about it.

He didn’t have time for that. _Sentiment_ was the reason why John was in danger, the reason why Victor was in that hospital bed. He didn’t have time to talk about something that had ceased to matter a long time ago. He had to find John. It was the only thing that mattered, and yet he didn’t move.

“It was what you - wanted,” Sherlock said. He didn’t tell him that no, he was _not_ fine. He would not be fine until he found John.

Victor didn’t reply to his words. He didn’t even look at him and it was so easy to see it now, so easy to deduce that it was not what Victor had really wanted. He had wanted him to fight, to fight for them both - to be strong for the both of them.

It was easy to see - to understand, and he could only postulate what would have happened had he acted differently.

And he didn’t have time to postulate, to make hypothesis, to play that game of what ifs.

Victor opened his mouth to speak, to say something, and Sherlock knew the man would ask about John, he would make inquiries, and he didn’t want to hear any of that. Not from Victor.

He didn’t smile, but his voice was soft when he said, “Take care, Victor.”

He turned and opened the door, and pretended not to hear Victor saying, “You too. And be careful, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

 

    The white noise was the worst thing. He could take being bound to a chair, it wasn’t the first time - he could even take the darkness, but the white noise was unsettling which, John supposed, was rather the point.

Sensory deprivation was something he had read about, he had read articles and essays about it, but the reality of it was different; he didn't know where he was, the place smelled of paint and faintly of bleach, but that was the only thing he had come up with since he had come to. He had expected to be drugged the minute he would get into the car that had been waiting for him and he hadn't been disappointed. He had been out of a light in a matter of seconds.  

       It could have been worse, he reasoned, as images of Joan Adams' hands popped up in his mind: Sherlock's name carved on her body had been terrible, but as a doctor (and a soldier) the idea of something happening to his hands was _scary._ They hadn't touched him so far and he had no idea whether they were there watching him or if he was alone. He couldn’t say – and that was the scariest thing.  

      He didn't know, he couldn't even tell how long he had been there; thinking was getting more and more difficult, it was taking a lot of effort to formulate coherent thoughts, it was taking a lot of effort not to grimace at the white noise and how it was drilling his ears, how it was making his skin itch.

        He had known since the very first moment that it was a trap, he had known it was exactly what they had expected him to do....they had wanted him to hurt Sherlock, and he had. God helped  him...he had.

   And he didn't even know if his daughter was there, wherever he was...perhaps she was there, right next to him, crying and he would never know. He couldn't hear or see a bloody thing!

     He felt his pulse quickening and he took deep breaths to calm himself down: working himself into a panic attack would not help matters! He had to focus, he had to

      His mobile phone had been surely found,  but perhaps they hadn't found the GPS device Mycroft had given him right away. Sherlock was surely looking for him because that was what _they_ wanted. Sherlock had not been fine, that day. He had been...like he sometimes was ever since they had left the hospital: apparently calm and his old self, but the look in his eyes was too blank, too empty. When it happened in their flat, when there were moments where he feared that Sherlock would calmly keep his hand under slashing water until the skin blistered he had got quite good at bringing him back -- until that morning, at least. He had seen the signs, he had seen the look in his eyes and he had done _nothing._

No, thatwasn't correct, was it? He had done something: he had helped setting up a trap for Sherlock.

    Even if it was stupid he closed his eyes behind the tight mask on his face.

   Sherlock had promised him, he had asked him to believe him when he said that he would always come back for him.

    He prayed that he didn't that time, that he couldn't find him.

 

* * *

 

 

When the steward of the plane brought William the phone he had been in the middle of an argument on his mobile with an old informant. He had never worked in the Midwest and his old informant had claimed he couldn’t pull information out of his arse, on the drop of a hat, just because he was in a hurry.

The fact that he was having that conversation in Albanian and that he was quite sure that the woman, who was speaking in Spanish at the moment on her own mobile, was understanding what he was saying, took the backseat when the steward told him that it was Mycroft Holmes on the phone.

He disconnected his call and noticed that the woman had angled herself so that she could listen to his conversation even while continuing hers and he took the phone from the steward’s hand.

That couldn’t possibly be good. Sherlock had texted that he would be in touch, but that had been hours before. He hadn’t been retired long enough to have forgotten what a phone call from a man like Mycroft Holmes could mean. His first thought was for Joan, but he sincerely doubted Sherlock’s brother would bother to call him personally if something had happened to her.

Something _must_ have happened, though - even the woman seemed to share his feeling because she had ended her own phone call and was pretending to text someone. She looked worried.

“Mr. Moore,” Mycroft Holmes said. William only knew the man by reputation, he had met him briefly, nevertheless the feeling of something amiss only grew when the man spoke.

“Sir,” William said, “did something happen?”

“Mary Watson is dead.” Mycroft said.

 _Fuck._ He thought - and yet, he had to say it because he had read her file, he had spent God knew how many hours digging deeper and deeper into the woman’s life - wondering why on Earth it hadn’t been done the minute John Watson had met her - and they were bound to land to Chicago in less than twenty minutes, they had an appointment with a man who would drive them to a graveyard where one Brian Cooper was buried and the woman known as Mary Watson had _died_  a couple of times already according to the information they had.

“Are you sure?” He eventually asked.

There was a short pause on the other side. Good. Mycroft Holmes was listening to him.

“We are examining the evidence,” Mycroft replied, “there is a video. She was shot to the head. The only confirmation we have, so far, is that the video has not been altered in any way.”

If he had more time, if his gut wasn’t telling him that it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that both his sources and the woman’s had come up with Brian Cooper’s name in relation to the woman known as Mary Morstan and a highly classified file involving Sherlock and a mission for MI6, he would ask to see the video, to examine it himself, even if it wasn’t his area of expertise. He had seen people getting shot to the head, though. He _had_ shot people to the head; he knew what to look for.

He didn’t ask, though. It was not his place, and he remembered his job all too well; surely there were people in London who were already watching the video.

And Mycroft Holmes had to know he was going to Chicago. That was why he had called, he realised.

“I think I have something,” William said, “Brian Cooper.”

“Yes,” Mycroft Holmes said, “my brother had - precise instructions.”

That was one way to put it. He had been part of a couple of similar operations; highly classified, dangerous, where the orders were very clear: there couldn’t be any witnesses left. Sherlock had single-handedly torn down Jim Moriarty’s legacy. He was only privy to part of the mission, his security clearance wasn’t high enough to read all of it, but he had read the parts about Chicago.

“Sir, with all due respect, if I were you I would lock up Sherlock and Mr. Watson  somewhere safe and I’d let spooks deal with it.” William said.

It was not his professional side talking, it was his instinct - and _that_ was something he definitely had not missed about his job: that sense of foreboding, the way the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he could almost taste the danger.

Mycroft Holmes let out a mirthless chuckle and William looked at the woman for a moment. She was openly listening to his conversation, now. If she had looked worried before, now she looked – almost distraught.

“They have both John and his daughter.” Mycroft said. He explained briefly what had happened and why.

Sherlock would fall for the trap. He would do what he had done when Joan was kidnapped and John threatened. He would not hesitate,  he was absolutely certain of that.

Mycroft still hadn’t given him his orders. He had assured him that protection for Joan had been further reinforced, but he doubted she was in any danger at the moment. They had John Watson, it was clear they had plans for Sherlock, anything else would quickly fade to the background.

“Does Sherlock have a good protection detail?” He asked.

It was weird, before meeting him he had thought Sherlock Holmes was a bastard, a psychopath, a big pain in the arse for whatever civil servant who had the misfortune of having to deal with him. He had heard stories about him, about both Holmes brothers, but Sherlock had -- kept his word. He had promised him he would find Joan,  only asking him to keep an eye on his doctor while he was away. He had been - _human_.

“The best. Although I suspect he will want it removed soon.” Mycroft replied.

“Sir,” William asked, “what do you want me to do?”

He had accepted that job for the money. He had accepted it for Joan,  to protect their future,  but he realized that he truly wanted to help Sherlock.  He had to.

“I am sure Miss. Adler can continue on her own before being allowed to disappear again. She can be very persuasive when she wants to,” Mycroft said,  after a few seconds of silence, "come home Mr. Moore,  your expertise is needed here."

William had no idea for what purpose Mycroft Holmes, who had all of MI5 and MI6 at his disposal, could possibly need him for,  nevertheless he said,  "Yes,  sir. "

Well, at least his suspicions were confirmed. It was Irene Adler indeed. He had read about her, about a few political scandals involving her, but - last he had heard she had been killed.

 He disconnected the call and took off his glasses for a moment.

“William,” Irene said, “Is he...?”

“No. He is fine.” William said. He doubted Sherlock was truly _fine_ , but he was alive...which was what truly mattered at the moment. He put on his glasses and for some reason he felt compelled to smile at her reassuringly, “John Watson has been taken, though-”

He didn’t know under which circumstances Irene Adler had met Sherlock Holmes, but it must have been something big if she owed Sherlock - and she had actively worked to pay her debt. It must have been something personal - because she looked truly scared for a moment.

“What did he say?” She eventually asked.

“I am to go back to London, you will continue on your own.” William replied.

He was sure that Irene would not truly be on her own, that she would have someone with her, someone sent by Mycroft. And judging by the hard look in her eyes he was sure that  she  would keep doing what Sherlock has asked her to do – and not because of the debt she owed him.

Irene nodded. She immediately went back to her mobile phone and started typing and William knew she would keep helping because - because she knew how much John Watson mattered to Sherlock.

“By the way, Miss. Adler,” He said after a moment, “I think Mycroft Holmes has just pardoned you.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was just a mobile phone wrapped in an evidence bag. It was John’s phone, it was not the same mobile he had had when they had first met, it was quite new. Agent Harris, with whom he hadn’t exchanged but a handful of words outside the perfunctory greetings and the information from and to Mycroft had handed him the item in the hospital’s elevator, after he had talked to Victor.

Agent Harris was not terrified of failing Mycroft any longer, but he was still intensely loyal to his brother, nevertheless Sherlock had deduced that giving him that phone had been a personal initiative. One not sanctioned by his brother.

For a moment, just a fraction of second, really, he had considered the possibility that the man was working for _them_ , and wouldn’t it have been grand if one of the agents that Mycroft had personally chosen for his protection had turned out to be an enemy? It was preposterous, and it had taken him but a look at the man’s eyes to see that it was only a matter of _sentiment_. Agent Harris still wanted to save people. He was still an idealist, and working for the secret services hadn’t changed that.

John’s phone was switched on; it was not password protected, John had always thought it was impractical. He realised as he sat in the car, holding that mobile in his hands, that he had never seen its contents; he had used it on various occasions, of course, but he did not know what John kept in it.

He scrolled through the texts and read the long text he had got the night before, with all the requests and instructions he had been given, he saw the text with which he had been ordered to go back to Barker Street. What he didn't expect to see, what he hadn't  expected to find were texts  from him. There  weren't many, just a handful of them...but John had  kept them,  even after meeting Mary, even after marrying her. John had kept the first texts he had sent him and others that were apparently meaningless.

He saw, once again, the picture of John’s daughter. John had only looked at it once, they had looked at it together; she was tiny – and she was _alive_. 

He had noticed a video embedded in a message in the draft folder, it was addressed to him, the timestamp showed John must have recorded that video right before Mycroft had come to Baker Street.

 

_"It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_John's words,  his voice was filled with disbelief,  confusion...and fear._

_Lazarus was a go.  People were working to make sure that it worked,  that the snipers either saw him fall or were notified that he had._

_"Leave a note when?" John asked._

_He didn't have much time,  and John still believed in him.  John had to watch him fall.  He had to believe in a magic trick.  It was the only chance they all had to survive._

_John would never know that his tears,  for once,  had been genuine._

_It was only fair,  he thought,  throwing his mobile phone on the pavement._

He had not read the message and he definitely had not seen the video. He didn't plan on. Reading what John had written, watching the video, his _note_ would be like admitting defeat and he was _not_ beaten. He had been  expertly played, of course, he had even lent a hand in that, but he had not been defeated,  not yet. He would not let them win.

The car was driving him to Herman Bennett's house,  and he would go there,  but he had to do and see something else first.

He looked again at the picture of John's daughter.  He had vowed that he would be there for her the night of john's wedding.  He had failed Mary – he had failed John, he would not do the same to that child.

"We need to go to New Scotland Yard,  please." He announced.

One of the men responsible for Janine's murder had told him that they would see each other again.  He had not been himself during their first meeting – that was a mistake he would correct right away.

 

* * *

 

 

 There weren't many people who knew the number of the cell phone he kept in his left breast pocket, and those who knew it seldom used it, unless it was absolutely necessary. It was not how things worked,  it was not how he liked  things to be done.

Not even Mary had that number, even if she was for all intents and purposes his second in command; the fact that the phone kept ringing,  while he was in the middle of a business meeting, an important meeting upon which a lot of his future endeavours rested, was not a good sign.  Nevertheless, he smiled at the people in the conference room,  apologised and got out of the room, the cell phone in his hand,  but he didn't answer until he was in his office.

"I hope it's important." He said as a way of greeting.

"Brian Cooper." The caller only said. It was his man in Chicago, and yes, it was indeed fucking important.

"What about him?" He asked. He kept his voice casual, his people needed him to keep it together. They trusted him because he had shown them that they could. He was not about to change that.

They had known it could happen. They had known that sooner or later AGRA’s past was going to be dissected; Mary's main cover identity was perfect, it had already been when they had met, she had made sure it was long before her husband had been killed.

 The other identity, though, the one her husband had given her, the one he had built using scraps of information and shreds of truth, was only meant to buy her time; he had vetted it before she had showed it to Sherlock Holmes, of course, but both Mary and him had known it could not  hold up for a long time. 

"People are asking questions. Mycroft Holmes’ people.'" The man on the phone  said.

"Where are they?" He asked.

"Graveyard." The man only said,  "It's a man and a woman, they are asking questions about the funeral. "

He had not known Mary at the time; if he had he would have advised her to let him deal with everything, he would have asked her not to compromise her identity, and he knew that she wouldn't have listened to him, not about that.

 He knew what she had done at the time, before they  put things in motion he had done his best to cover her tracks, to bury the official records so deeply that finding them would be nearly impossible. 

Allison Gabrielle Rebecca Ash's life had only briefly overlapped with Brian Cooper's,  but Emily Abel,  the woman who had departed from Heathrow and spent a few days in Chicago,  had identified Brian Cooper 's body, paid for his funeral in cash and had been its only attendant.

 Mary had given him all the information at the time, he had covered her tracks, but things were still not safe: it only took a CCTV image he might have missed or an eye witness to fuck things up. 

"Call me the minute you have news.  Alert our friends in London." He said and checked his watch.  He had to go back to the conference room, his guests had a deal to sign,  one he had worked very hard on. There was a reason why the past few weeks had needed to be utter chaos for Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes: deals needed to be signed and alliances formed. 

"Will do. What do you want me to do with those people?" The man asked.

"Nothing." He said. The last thing they all needed was to kill Mycroft Holmes' people while they were investigating on a woman that didn’t even officially exist, it would only give the elder Holmes data.

It probably would not make any difference at that point, but he didn’t want to take useless risks. He was aware that he would have to deal with Mycroft Holmes, whatever the aftermath of that day would be, but that would be on his terms. Mycroft Holmes would not have data, he would _not_ make things easy for him.

 He disconnected the call and closed his eyes for a moment. Things would go according to the plan; that said he had to come up with an alternative strategy very soon.

When he went back to the conference room his smile was genuine: no reason for the people in that room to know that there was something amiss.

The fact that he had an idea, at least an ember of it, of a back-up plan, was purely incidental.

 

* * *

 

 

Lestrade was not at the Yard and he wasn’t answering his phone. No one had been able to give him an explanation about his sudden disappearance, no one had seen him for hours. Sherlock had last seen him when they had all left Bart’s.

Agent Harris had assured him that Lestrade was fine, that he had not been harmed in any way and Sherlock realised that he had not asked that question _precisely_ , he had only enquired about the man’s whereabouts. Agent Harris had given him the answer he truly needed, though.  

 No one had tried and stop him or had interfered in any way when he had asked to see the two men who had killed Janine. It wasn’t only due to Mycroft’s interference, even if it was there, in the way no one objected when he asked to bring the two men in an interrogation room and leave him _alone_ with them, especially after what had happened a few hours earlier. 

No. There was something else, something that must have been there for weeks unbeknownst to him: the way people were looking at him, with pity – which honestly angered him - and with something akin solidarity, which was confusing to him. Those looks accompanied him as he walked down the familiar hallways and he wondered where Mycroft was hiding, from where he would observe him -- because there were no doubts he would be observing him, much like he was observing the two men through the one way mirror.

The two men – he would not even bother to learn their names – were already in the room and Sherlock took a moment to observe the taller  of the two: he had assaulted him, a few hours earlier, there were clear signs on the man’s face. He clearly remembered how he had hit the man, over and over, how he had smashed the man’s head against the desk, the sound of breaking bones not fully registering with him, he hadn’t even felt the blood on his hand – somehow he had had the presence of mind of using his left hand, which was probably why the man in the room wasn’t in a hospital with a concussion.

The two men weren’t surprised in the least to see him when he finally entered the room. They exchanged a brief glance, but didn’t say a word. Sherlock sat, clasping his hands on the desk.

The two men were still calm and he understood now, with perfect clarity, their previous behaviour. How he had not seen that they had felt sure with the knowledge that they would soon have leverage? How he had not understood what was taking place?

He focused on the tall man, ignoring his own thoughts. They would not help him bring John and his daughter back. And that was the only thing that mattered.

The tall man looked calm, there was a careful blank look in his eyes, he had shot Janine and he was clearly the stronger of the two men in front of him.

“Told you we would see again very soon...” The other man said.

That was war, Herman Bennett had been right and  he had met similar men before: he had hunted them down, cornered them, deceived them – killed them and at the time it hadn’t been as personal as it was now.

“You did.” Sherlock replied.

“Here’s how it works,” The tall man said, his voice was nasal – he had broken his nose, after all, he remembered that, but the man didn’t seem to mind when he continued, “Unless we’re given full immunity you won’t hear a word from us. Not one word.”

So they did _have_ information, then. They didn’t know where John and the baby were, though – whoever was at the top wouldn’t take such a risk.

“You cannot bluff your way out of this,” The tall man continued, “you can smash my head against every fucking desk in London if it makes you feel better, but facts won’t change!”

 “What facts?” Sherlock asked. It was like old times, he felt exactly what he was supposed to feel: his body, his mind, his surroundings.

“You know what they want.” The tall man said.

“My death, obviously.” Sherlock replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

The tall man chuckled. It was wet sound, the man was in pain, but he didn’t _care._ He had been waiting for that precise moment, Sherlock realised.

 The tall man smiled. It was the smile of someone who was enjoying saying those words – because he knew he had the power to hurt him. He shrugged,  imitating his gestures of a few moments earlier and said, “Eventually, yes. But it doesn’t take a _genius_ to get that, does it? You are not here because you don’t wanna die. You are here because you hope you can spare them some pain.”

That was one of the reasons, yes. He wanted to find John and the baby, bring them home, but there was also that. He knew there would be pain. There had been pain – people who bore a resemblance to him, William, Joan, Victor, Janine, Mary – they had all suffered, all to get him; they had used Herman Bennett to break him, they were now using John and his daughter because they knew he would do everything in his power to stop them, to spare John.

“And there will be pain. Lots of it.” The shorter man said. He clearly had an addiction to cocaine, he hadn’t shot up, though – he was refraining from sniffling, but Sherlock recognised the signs all too clearly. The short man was a weak ring in that chain, but that wasn’t stopping him talking, yapping away.

“So, to sum it up: full immunity for us – or...” The man trailed, he didn’t need to end his sentence. The message was clear.

“Understand this, Sherlock,” The tall man said, “this is a machine.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow: he doubted the man would say something unprompted. Even Herman Bennett had stuck to his instructions, right until the end.

He supposed there would be a moment where he would have to go back to John’s conversation with Herman Bennett, but it would have to wait. Even the relief at the idea that the man was dead, would have to come at a later date. 

"Who runs it? Is it a man?  An organisation? " Sherlock asked.  Whatever his life,  his _feelings_ might be,  they didn't matter,  he was in that room,  with those men,  for a purpose: to gather further clues because they had things to say, clearly.

The tall man shook his head. 

 _Not_ _yet..._ The man was communicating him _._

He had known the man had had military training,  but it was more apparent than ever  that he was more than a hired killer.

 "We don't know. " The tall man lied,  "This? " The man continued,  gesturing at the space between them,  at the room,  "has been a long time in the making! "

"We are everywhere!" The short man interjected. 

Moron. Sherlock thought, as he took his mobile phone from his pocket. He had  just got two texts.

"So I've been told. " Sherlock replied, keenly feeling the weight of the phone in his hand.

"You should check the phone." The tall man said, his voice ripe with mock concern, "it might be about John!"

They were looking at him expectantly, he knew that; they might not know where John was, but they had at least an idea about what the plans were. There was a reason if they had allowed themselves to get caught: whether it was a clue or a message. 

John was alive. He wasn’t surprised, it wouldn’t make sense to sacrifice their bait so quickly, he was useful, for now. He was also bound to a chair bulloned to the pavement, headphones in his ears and a blindfold covered his eyes.

He was unharmed, but he saw the beads of perspiration in the hollow of his neck and on his cheeks. The picture was grainy, it had been taken using infrared lenses, John was in a dark room, they were using sensory deprivation techniques on him; he must have probably been drugged, balance of probability leaned toward that option, but he was otherwise unharmed. He knew his face wouldn’t show the relief he was feeling, he had forgot how easy it could be to appear emotionless, a machine when it truly mattered. Nevertheless, the relief was there – John was alive, he was fine, he had not been hurt. It was his job to make sure that the situation remained unchanged.

There wasn’t a message attached to the photo, no deadline, no clue, nothing to go on either – there was nothing in the background of the picture that might help him locate John and the baby: just bare walls and a concrete floor.

The second text was from Mycroft. He was tempted to delete it without even reading it, he would tolerate his presence, but he had not and would not forget what he had done: how he had once again chosen to sacrifice someone he held dear for the greater good – or because he had been played and he wanted to obtain results.

“ _Razaranje is still in place. Act accordingly_ ”  Mycroft’s text recited. As he had suspected Mycroft was observing him, checking on his progresses, masking his nosiness behind brotherly _concern._

  Razaranje had not worked, it had been implemented when it was too late (they had been _years_ too late.), but he had to concede that Mycroft was right; it could be used to gain answers, even scraps of information could and would help him to find John and his daughter –  and would give Mycroft tools to eradicate the newest menace, not that he cared about that or about his brother’s problems.

He put the mobile phone in the inside pocket of his coat and regaled the two men with a cold stare before saying, “Don’t you find peculiar that your lawyers aren’t here?”

Hesitation, just flickers of it, in the short man’s eyes. He had considered that, he had wondered and waited – the tall man was better at hiding his thoughts, his doubts. The tall man looked unconcerned and he truly wasn’t. He had _faith._

“I was told that Herman Bennett’s lawyers came running not even ten minutes after he was allowed to make his phone call.” Sherlock continued.

Oh. That was easy – it wasn’t even a mask he had to wear and unlike his previous encounter with the two men he was acutely aware of everything surrounding him, of each detail, each subtle shift in the men’s demeanour as he went on talking.

“Obviously, whoever is in charge has deemed you expendable. Your lawyers are nowhere to be found and, furthermore, as far as official records about your arrest and your very existence there aren’t any. Therefore, how can you be granted immunity if you do not exist?”

 _There_. The cracks on the cool surface, the short man breaking a sweat, apparently he had expected something else, a different outcome. It would take just a push, a little shove to make him crumble. It would take more work with the tall man, he was aware of that, it was only a matter of time, which was a luxury he wasn’t sure he had, but he was sure that he would break too, eventually. Everyone did.

He had been there before, not in that room, not with those men, but with other people, in rooms that smelled of stale beer, smoke, sweat and weed, with men who had started out being cocky, arrogant and had ended up telling him whatever he needed to know. All of them, without exception.

“We won’t be left alone.” The short man said and Sherlock could deduce myriads of details about the man and he had to smile.

“You cannot possibly mean that. You can’t be that stupid!” Sherlock said. He looked at the tall man and continued, “He would not risk showing his hand, not this late in the game.”

When neither man said a word he said, “So it is a man.”

The short man was crumbling down, he was realising that he would not get out of that, that he would not have any chance to cut deals because he didn’t exist: no fingerprints or d.n.a for it had been erased from the databases, no official record of his arrest, of his presence in that room.

He wasn’t moved by faith or whatever was behind the tall man actions – he was only a thug, one who must have accepted an outrageously paid job with vague assurances about the outcome.

“We don’t know who he is,” The short man said, and it was the truth, neither man knew who was actually in charge, “no one does,”

It was a lie. It had to be.  Even Moriarty had had people who helped him, with whom he was in constant contact.

“No one does,” The short man repeated and then added quickly, sniffing his nose, “I heard all the strays and the psychos who kissed Moriarty’s ass were recruited.”

 Not Moriarty’s henchmen, not the people he had hunted down for two years, then – but Moriarty’s presence was still there. He supposed _that_ was the true extent of Moriarty’s legacy.

The tall man still wasn’t talking, he still looked calm; there were cracks in his facade as well, but he was strong. Perhaps he was one of the _strays,_ he would not say a word.

“He has abandoned you,” Sherlock said, “did he give you a message to deliver to me?”

A flicker in the tall man’s eyes confirmed that it was indeed the case, Sherlock realised he had not moved a muscle as he had talked to the men, no one had raised their voices, it had been remarkably civil, but it was still a war, it was still a game he had to win at any cost.

“As I said: expendable.” Sherlock said.

The tall man smiled, it was not the arrogant smile he had smiled hours earlier, or the one filled with mock concern of just a few minutes before. It was a sincere smile that didn’t leave his face when he said, “He always keeps his promises. That’s what they all say, that’s how he got where he is. That’s how he fucked you over!”

He was loyal, he would _not_ tell him any more than what he was supposed to, that didn’t mean he would not try to shake the man’s beliefs, after all it was what they had tried to do with him, wasn’t it? To use the man’s word: that was how he had been fucked over.

They were good, but he was better. It had taken him far too long to remember that, thus giving those people too much power. Time to change things, though.

“Were you promised that you would not pay for what you did?” He casually asked.

Both men shook their heads. Reading those men was easy – there would be no point in bluffing or lying. The truth was enough.

“I’d suggest delivering whatever message you have for me and there might be a chance you won’t spend the rest of your lives in Belmarsh and that would be the _best_ outcome.”

“Go alone.” The tall man said, he wasn’t concerned with his words, even if he knew that he was not bluffing. He never did if he could help it.

The short man would not talk, he was not privy of any useful information, he hadn’t been appointed to deliver messages. He hadn’t even shot Janine, he had stood there, smoked two cigarettes and watched her die.  

“Start with your buddy’s house – don’t try any of your tricks. They will know, they _always_ know,” The tall man continued, “and there might be a chance you will get there in time before they tear your boyfriend to pieces.”

There was a pause, the man’s voice seethed with contempt when he added, “and no, we have no clue about where he is, so don’t bother!” 

It was what Victor had told him – the only thing he had got from the two men was that the tallest of the two had a personal reason behind his actions: whether it was loyalty to Moriarty or hatred against him it didn’t really matter.

The short man would break, he would give whatever information he had, the other – the man who had shot Janine to the stomach would stubbornly hang on his personal reasons, on his trust on the man who ran “the machine”, but he too would break. Everyone did in the end.  

 He got up from his chair without saying a word, there wasn’t a lot he could say. There was a lot he could and would do, while publicly Janine’s murder would remain unsolved, the two men would pay for what they had done. There would be no lawyers that kept their names in the media, no tabloid articles about morbid details and amateur psychological profiles on the killers.

The two men would disappear, without a trace.

“We weren’t promised that we’d get away scot free – but he promised you would suffer before you died.” The tall man said, “I’ll take what I can get!”

Sherlock smiled, “Well, I am not dead yet, am I?”

He was at the door when the tall man said, “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t turn. There was no use, he could hear the smile in the man’s voice. He still didn’t know his name, he didn’t know or care about his motive, he didn’t particularly care about his words either.

They were just words. He wasn’t dead: he could feel his own skin, the blood flowing into his veins, his heart beating, he distinctly heard the noise of the door being open, he knew there were at least three people who had observed what had taken place inside that room, he knew the cameras had been turned off, he knew the room had been cleaned just a few hours earlier, with bleach and a lemon scented detergent.

He was alive.

And yet –

And yet the man’s words, were sticking to him, somehow. As if they were true.

As if he had died, and he hadn’t truly noticed.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was holding up remarkably well under the circumstances. Sherlock must surely know he was there, in the building, possibly in the next room. Sherlock hadn’t pushed as much as he could have under other circumstances, but Mycroft conceded there wasn’t enough time and that was not the right place.

Besides, it was not really his brother’s job. His job was to find John and the little fishes. He had to go further.

He would find and utterly destroy the man (men and women) who were behind what was happening.    

He waited for Sherlock to leave Scotland Yard; he knew that his brother would not let his anger cloud his judgement, but there were things Sherlock didn’t need to know, there were places whose existence Sherlock could not be privy of.

He knew everything about the two men in the interrogation room and the rest had been absolutely transparent during their meetings with Sherlock.

He took his time when he entered the room. As he had texted Sherlock, razaranje was still in place, it had been employed too late, perhaps, that did not mean he would not use all the means he had at his disposal.

Sherlock's priority, at the moment, was to save John Watson and his daughter. 

His duty, no his _priority_ was... to protect his brother,  of course.

The two men in the room knew who he was, it took him but a second to realise that. That was interesting, he decided. He would not play by the rules. He was the one who wrote the rules, he was the one who made sure they were applied, he was the one who could invent new rules if he deemed it appropriate and the two men would soon find out.

They had told Sherlock that they hadn’t been promised to get away scot free and they would not.

“Mr. Kruger,” Mycroft said, addressing the man who had killed Janine Hawkins, he addressed the shorter man sitting at his right and said, “Mr. Goodman.”

He was deliberately slow as he sat down, he let the men look at him, he let them think they could dangle their knowledge in front of him as a bargaining tool.

They were spectacularly wrong.

The late Herman Bennett had had something to live for, a mission to carry out and that had been an unforgivable oversight on his part due to sentiment.

The two men sitting in front of him were mere pawns, he needed information from them, not the kind that would save John Watson – for it was clear that they were not useful for that.

They had said it was a machine, that what they were experiencing was a long time in the making. He would start from there.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft said, “let’s have a chat, shall we?”

Herman Bennett had been resilient because of his obsession and his beliefs, but he had almost broken him. Mycroft Holmes always learned from his mistakes.

There would not be another failure.

 

* * *

 

 

The ride to Herman Bennett’s house had been a silent one. Sherlock had not touched his mobile phone or John’s, he had not even retreated back to his mind palace: the doors were shut, there was nothing else he could do about the rubble on the floors and the cracks in the walls and the ceiling besides the few tricks he had used. There was not enough time; he had kept his mind as blank as possible, focusing on the streets, on the noise of the rain ticking against the windows, refusing to recall how he had observed those same streets pass him by the first time, when he had followed Mr. Bennett.

At the time he had thought it would be over soon, that he would simply lead Lestrade and his men to Mr. Bennett’s primary bolt hole, the one where he had tortured and killed his victims. Even after he had frozen when the green-eyed man had said the exact same words Jim Moriarty had said on Bart’s rooftop,  he had still believed that things would go smoothly. He had forgotten that he had smashed his hand against the mirror in his bathroom, how he had spent the night staring at the ceiling, after. He had forgotten how he had underestimated Magnussen and how dearly it had cost him.

He had forgotten himself, and he had not realized that until it had been too late.

 That did not matter, not now. It did not matter that he had been asked to go back to that house, to look for clues even though the last time he had been there he had not been truly ready.

Things were different, now.

The car stopped in front of the house. He had noticed how ordinary it looked from the outside the first time he had been there, he had suspected Mr. Bennett’s primary bolt hole would be a place where he could hide in plain sight and he had been right.

He got out of the car, signalling the agents not to follow him inside the house. There was the concrete possibility that he was being observed and even if he knew that they wanted him to find John, that they wanted him _alive_ for the time being, he did not want to take any risks.

Agent Harris clearly wanted to follow him inside, and for a moment Sherlock was tempted to tell him not to bother since it was likely the last day he would be assigned as his protection detail, he wanted to tell him to consider a change of career, one where his empathy would be more useful.

He did not say that, though, he merely enquired about agent Drake, who still hadn’t been in touch and agent Harris replied that he was not at liberty to comment on Agent Drake’s whereabouts.

Mycroft was clearly making his moves, without involving him. Good. The less he dealt with his brother, the better. Less distractions, less sentiment.   

“I’ll be right outside, sir.” The other agent said.

Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes as he got inside the house. He had observed the house on two separate occasions already; he had been informed that there hadn’t been any active surveillance on the house since razaranje had been a go; as far as he knew no one had got into the house for at least a week, yet there was a reason if he had been asked to go there, if he had been asked to start from that house.

The sitting room was as cosy as he remembered: bright colours and soft edges – a thin veneer of normalcy Mr. Bennett had used to hide what took place in the soundproof room in the basement.

 He didn’t move for a moment. He had done all he could to shut the doors in his mind palace, to sweep back and contain the toxic content that had spilled out of the rooms in the dungeons. The doors were tightly shut, and yet he feared that moving would create another schism in his mind palace.

He had no choice but taking the first step and then the second and a third, as he looked around. The last time he had been in that room John had been with him, Lestrade had been there as well. He had – vastly underestimated what his reaction would be. He was alone, now, feeling more himself than he had in a very long time.

 He focused on the room he was looking at, studying each single detail, trying to spot even the tiniest differences in it: there was none in the sitting room. He could still see how the room had been searched, the ham-fisted methods employed both by Scotland Yard and Mycroft’s people, but there was nothing out of place, nothing he had not seen or noticed before.  

He moved, pretending that the sound of his own soles on the pavement didn’t bother him, that the silence in that room wasn’t a tad deafening to his painfully honed senses. He shook his head, walking toward the small room that led to the basement.

 He had glossed over what had happened in that house the last time he had been there, he had not been himself, but John had been there with him, even if he had not wanted him to, he had not wanted him to see – to smell that odour, to be touched by what he could see in that house.

He was alone, now. He was himself: his hands were steady, he did not feel the impulse to curl his right one  in a fist and feel the stitches tear. His hand was still sore, but it was the sort of pain that came with healing.

 He was – in control, more than he had been for a very long time – and he realised that he hated that house with an intensity that surprised him.

It was another futile attempt at playing mind games with him and he should roll his eyes, he should find the clue that might possibly have been there, hidden in plain sight since Mr. Bennett had made him walk into the house, and just go away, find a mean to communicate with those people that those games were boring.

It was the same house – where he had done _nothing,_ where he had lost himself twice. Yes, he hated those walls – that odour and everything they stood for.

Mary’s killer had said they had watched everything. Had they been delighted upon seeing that he had not reacted? That he had not done a thing to stop Herman Bennett? That he had not been himself the second time he had been in that house, even though he had believed he could sweep into those rooms and do what he had always done?

Yes, he had been drugged by Mr. Bennett – regardless of the results of the tox screen he was sure of that, but that had come _later_.

He had been irrational while searching the house with John – but that, too, had come later.

He was walking, for the third time, down that narrow hallway. Herman Bennett had a gun, but being held at gunpoint had never particularly scared him, therefore it was not an excuse.

He had _no_ excuses. John had been taken for the same reason – his temporary paralysis, his inability to see, to act, to be, simply put, _himself_.

The smell was still there, he was sure he was not imagining it, it was a physical presence, an objective fact. The pictures were not on the wall any more. He had seen them, again, at the hospital, Lestrade had shown them to him (he had not truly asked, he had not cared) and later, the thick file about Herman Bennett’s victims had made its way to Baker Street, even if he had barely glanced at it. It would have served no purpose.

He remembered each image – there was no clue about what had truly mattered in the obscene pictures of those dead women – they had been just corpses, waiting to be found out. Their murderer was in prison – and Mycroft had made sure that he talk, there had been no mystery to solve there.

He blinked his eyes and looked down, at the floor: cheap linoleum, badly washed unlike the sitting room: the real Herman Bennett with his perfect diction, thin and long fingers, pale green eyes and his dexterity with a razor and a whip started there.

His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, alerting him of an incoming text; the noise did nothing to break his train of thoughts, the direction his mind was taking and he would think later that he had done nothing to stop things either – he had poked and prodded at those images as if they were an experiment, or something ripe needing to be sliced open, to let the purulent content out.

He hadn’t even really started.

He was not surprised when he saw another picture of John; it was redundant, at that point, they surely must know that he would play the game at that stage, that he would not risk John’s life, and yet he studied each detail of the grainy image they had sent him.

_John’s skin was soft; it was warm, it surprised Sherlock – even though knowing John it really shouldn’t – how much the simple act of touching him, of feeling the texture of his skin under his fingertips felt not only natural, but necessary._

_Sex did not solve problems. Sex – was an act: muscles and chemistry and nerves doing what they were supposed to do._

_What John and him had done the previous night, what he wanted from him that night, the need of feeling his skin against his own, was quite simply more –_

_More than the throbbing between his legs, than the elevated hear-rate, than both their pupils dilated._

_He was supposed to be a genius, but he found himself marvelling at what just touching John was doing to him._

John was still unharmed, although he was clearly starting to feel the effects of sensory deprivation, at least judging by the curl of his lips and clenching his jaws in the picture. He was not exactly surprised that there weren’t instructions, any words accompanying the picture – he would have to find the clue on his own, they wanted him in that house, but to what purpose?

To weaken him? To remind him that he could and had failed? Didn’t they know he was painfully aware of that?

He walked, there was no hesitation in his steps as he walked down the stairs to the basement.

Most of the things that had been there that day had been taken away even before he visited that house the day he had left the hospital, there was nothing out of place, except the smell, it was as strong as it had been that day: decay, bodily fluids and badly washed floors.

Was he being observed? Was he being watched even now? He looked around – he was not afraid, he was not –

 

_Powerless. Herman Bennett liked his victims to be powerless. He was a sadist, but he had already known that. He clearly loved blood: shedding it, seeing the men and women he choose bleed to death by his hands._

_He had not expected the sharp pain in his neck as soon as they got into the soundproof room built in the basement._

_Later the tox screens would turn up negative, but he would never forget how quickly, how devastatingly that drug made him powerless. Made him lose consciousness._

_He would never forget the glee in Herman Bennett’s eyes as he caught his fall. The wrongness of that moment of intimacy._

He had no puncture marks on his body, except for the faint track marks from old days and bruises on his forearms due to the IVs. Yet, it had happened. Herman Bennett had told John that he had had to improvise, that his reaction had been unexpected. As he looked around in the basement – and yes, he was aware that he should get into the soundproof room, he was aware that he should look for clues in that room and that time was a luxury he was sorely lacking at the moment – he recalled the other victims’ autopsies.

 He had put everything aside after Herman Bennett had been caught. He had let Mycroft and Lestrade deal with him, he had – given cursory glances at reports, but it felt important that he should remember everything, now.

Herman Bennett had been unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but he – had carried out a mission, there had to be traces of his connection with whoever was behind him.

 

_It was their bed – and he had had no troubles getting adjusted to that. It was where John belonged: in his arms, skin to skin, in his life – his blogger, his best friend, his moral compass, his lover._

_John’s touch was hesitant, he was mindful of the scars and stitches on his body, Sherlock, though was not._

_He loved the taste of John’s skin: it fit him, perfectly. He loved the texture of the man’s skin against his tongue, how rich it was._

_“Sherlock –“ John painted._

_His lips trailed up and silenced John._

_No. He would not hear his moral scruples, his worry, not that night._

_John’s hands cupped his face as he broke the kiss, his eyes bore into his – making sure he was really willing, that he was not lashing out against the events of the day, or trying to exorcize the ghosts of his past._

_As ever John saw but not observed._

_“John...” He said – and he was not sure he had ever heard that tone of voice coming from himself._

_It was – more than his lover’s name. It was what he would be absolutely unable to say even on normal circumstances. It was his reassurance that he was there, that all of his mind (and heart) was entirely focused on the blonde man in his arms._

_It was years – ages of repressed longing and love and what had happened in the basement could not truly cancel that._

_It was reassurance that John could and would not hurt him._

_And John, as ever his conductor of light, understood that._

_He kissed him back._

Sherlock blinked. Those – images were not allowed, not in that moment, not while he was searching for clues. Not in that basement.

He strode angrily toward the soundproof room and halted on the threshold. The last time he had been there it had been easy to gloss over what had happened, he had been – distracted. He had been – overwhelmed and it was so clear, now. Obvious, really.

He remembered the metal chafing against his wrists and naked skin; it had not been the worst he had experienced until that point, not by any stretch of imagination, he had not truly been afraid. Not at first.

The room was unchanged, the smell of blood still lingered in the small space, and the artificial light made the room seem even starker and bleaker than it actually was. He had seen – deduced how many people had died in that room, how they had died, where Mr. Bennett had been when it happened, how much pleasure he had experienced watching blood spill.

Even then, even as the pictures he had studied came alive before his eyes and he could see exactly what had happened, how long each victim had truly lasted before being killed, there had been hubris, he had not thought it would happen to him, he had somehow believed that things would be different for him.

They hadn’t.

There was nothing in that room, just echoes of what had happened, images he had seen far too many times behind his closed lids at nights, the things he had absolutely refused to let cloud his mind when he had been in that room with Lestrade and Mycroft’s men – even if he could see, now, that it had been an exercise in futility.

He took a few steps in the room: the rack was still there (why?), it had not been cleaned, it had been merely scraped to obtain dna and skin samples, not that it would have made any difference since they had caught Mr. Bennett red handed – and it was a nice euphemism for what had been about to happen, for what had already happened.

He swallowed past the sudden bitter dryness in his throat. He had been tortured three times before acting out on instinct and saving that girl’s life – and as much as it had been unpleasant, there had been a purpose – something he could understand about it, something logical in those acts; they had needed information, they had wanted to know whom he was working for and they had resorted to crude means to obtain what they wanted: cause and effect.

Even in Serbia, where he truly had feared he would die, right at the end of what it had felt like a lifetime of travelling, lying, deceiving and blood-spilling, the people who had tortured him had not had a personal agenda. They had – done their jobs – and he had done his. There was a sense of balance to it, something his mind could rationalise.

They had been admittedly good at inflicting pain, John had touched those scars, he had kissed them –  he had allowed him to trace some of them with his fingertips the previous night, and it had truly felt like they belonged to the past, like he would stop losing track of time, like it was a closed chapter.

What Mr. Bennett had done was different. He had told John, over and over, how little Mr. Bennett had meant in the grand scheme of things, how unimportant he was, and he had not lied, he truly had been a mere psychopath, a tool used to weaken him.

Except that – it had been _personal._ Every wound, every act had been entirely personal for Mr. Bennett. He had hurt him not because he had been asked to, not because it was, strictly speaking, part of the plan, but because he wanted to and he could.

The words the man had told John were finally registering with him and he could feel anger, bubbling just beneath the surface, making its way up – and he had to force himself to stay still, his hands splayed on his sides as he looked at the rack in front of him.

He blinked his eyes. He had torn Mr Bennett’s cell apart, even if he had but a vague recollection of it and it would be utterly easy to do the same thing in that room. No one would care, no one would see, no one would know – but how would that change things? How would it help him find John and bring him and his daughter home?

He breathed, ignoring the stench in the room, the underlying one which, apparently, only he could smell and slowly turned his back at that rack, and that room.

He could still see himself, he could feel the first cuts, the man’s hands and tongue on him, the feeling of being breached as metal chafed his wrists and back and how he had not cried out. Not then, not even when he had felt his breath rush out of his lungs.

He could recount every second, every moment of what had happened in that small room, not out loud, not in detail – the person closer to hear everything had been Lestrade, but there were things he had not shared with him, it would have served no purpose.

He felt more in control when he got out of the room, it had been a waste of time, it would have been far too banal for them to hide a clue in that room. He climbed up the steps, thinking about how John had been right about that house – how much it lacked personal details.

That house, where Herman Bennett had lived for years, might as well have been a hotel room, a place where he truly was himself only in the basement.

He knew that he would hardly find anything in the bedroom upstairs, nevertheless he checked the rooms – there was nothing out of the ordinary: it was all pristine and Spartan, merely the place where he had slept, masturbated and had showers.

He left the kitchen for last. He had never been in that room, he had seen some pictures of it, taken by the incompetent people both Mycroft and Lestrade surrounded themselves with, but it was hardly the same thing; the room was in many ways similar to the sitting room: all fake cheerfulness and bright colours – so very generic and bland.

He walked around the kitchen, juxtaposing what he was seeing with the pictures he had seen for the past few weeks. It was so – _good_ to feel his mind working properly, in that house, so much that for a moment he forgot all about John and his daughter: it was the game, the thrill of the chase while being himself – he didn’t even feel the ghost of pain in his back, he was – fine.

And perhaps Mycroft was right when he said that he was his own worst enemy – rather his own mind was. It came in a rush – he could do nothing to prevent it, he didn’t have time to.

480 minutes, every single moment of them, every sound, smell, image, each and every wound, every cut, all the pain – and there _had_ been a lot of pain, all the words Mr. Bennett had said, every moment in which he had touched him as if he owned him, the texture of his heated flesh in his mouth, the feeling of blood tickling down his body – the things he had hastily shoved in a dark corner in his mind palace filled his mind, his body, at once.

He did not move, he could not. Not in that room, not when he was positive that he was being observed, that they wanted to see him crumble down and be at his weakest. It would kill John.  

He could not breathe for a moment, he felt like choking, naked, covered in blood and fluids, Herman Bennett’s fingers tight in his hair.

He had to focus, he had to shake himself free.

He had vague recollections of – something he had seen and experienced after Mary had shot him. He had been told he had died on the operation table, John had told him angrily that he had flat lined – he did remember Jim Moriarty – he did remember the feeling, the absolute certainty that John was in grave danger and that he had to save him.

He had never told him. He had sworn, and he had meant it, with every fiber of his being, that he would always come back to him. And he needed to uphold that vow, now.

He breathed: in and out, forcing himself not to think, fixing his gaze on the fridge in front of him.

And there it was, hidden in plain sight, as he had known it would be: it was a deerstalker magnet, among others and under it there was a picture, even if it was hidden by other magnets.

Just mere moments before he had felt so fully in control of himself, of his body and mind, and yet it took him a considerable amount of willpower to actually move, to take the few steps that separated him from the fridge.

The sound the magnets did as they hit the floor startled him for a moment. He squared his shoulders and held his head high. He was ready to go to pieces, after. He was willing to relive those 480 minutes, over and over, after – but not in that kitchen, not in that house, not when he had a promise to keep, a vow – words he had said to John, while sentiment had been the only thing that kept him tethered and sane – to uphold.

He wanted that house burned down, he wanted it to be destroyed until there was nothing left, he wanted to crack his own head open and forcibly remove the images, the feelings, the sounds there were still there, only partially banished. Of course, he could do no such a thing.

He knew that nothing would show on his face and in his body language, he knew that it had been not even a second where he must have blinked as he relived what had happened. As if the nightmares and the scars weren’t enough.

He could not help rolling his eyes when he saw the picture hidden below the magnets, held up by the deer stalker one: it was his grave, the black headstone with golden letters, an empty grave –  a piece of rock that as far as he knew had not been removed.

He turned the picture in his hand and the only thing written on the back of the picture in a red marker was: “tick, tock.”

Still no deadline. They were not in a rush, apparently. They wanted the game to last.

Somehow it did not surprise him. The game had been going on for a long time, it was time for him to truly catch up, apparently.

 

* * *

 

       

     

 “You will be all right.” He had said. The underground garage was safe, Greg had known how many men were there, but it had hardly mattered. Molly had nodded, she had still been too pale and still determined to prove that she was not a coward.

He had escorted her to the car that would bring her to a safe place, the safest under the circumstances.

“I know,” She had replied. She had hesitated, she had – looked at the man behind him and said, “Be careful –“

He had smiled. He had wanted to tell her that it was okay, that it was his job, that as long as he knew that his kids and her were fine, he would be okay, but he had not said a word.

“Greg...” Molly had said, “promise me?”

They had all watched Mary die – and Molly had seen what had happened to Janine and Victor Trevor. That was not a game: people were dying – people had been dying and suffering for weeks, and she had  known how tired of it all he was.

Molly Hooper was – a friend, a good friend, he had slept on her sofa and held her as she had cried and they had danced together once. They had coffee together almost every day, and Greg could simply not imagine his life without her in it, in whichever capacity he could have her. It was as simple as that, really.

He had acted on impulse, he had – not thought things over, not really, when he had kissed her forehead, lingering for a moment more than absolutely necessary – he had shown his hand, but it had not mattered. He still didn’t care, truth be told.

Her eyes had been bright when he had stepped back, murmured reassurances and watched her as she got inside the car, the only thing mattering to him knowing that she would be safe, away from danger.

Agent Drake, of course, had not said a word. And he could not say he gave half a toss if people knew that Molly was – important to him.

Drake had asked him if he wanted to help, back in the hospital, even before they all saw Mary being killed and he had said yes.

Help Sherlock, bring down the bastards who were killing, torturing and threatening people he loved? Yes, he was in. As Sherlock was fond of saying: the game was on.

Except that it was not and it had never been a game.

 They were in a car, following one of the few threads they had: John’s GPS. It had been found out immediately, of course, but it had given them at least a start – and they had images of the car on which he had got in. It was not much, but it was what Drake had said they had to do, Mycroft’s direct orders, and he followed them.

He half suspected they were playing bait – and a look at the placid calm on Drake’s face almost convinced him of it.

Unlike John and Sherlock – he remembered the names of each person Herman Bennett had tortured and killed. He remembered their faces, he had seen their houses, talked to their relatives. He remembered all the faces in the pictures and had been there when their remains had been recovered.

He had got into the small room in Herman Bennett’s basement, he had shot the bastard with his trousers and pants down, literally,  he had seen Sherlock before the younger man could even have the time to pretend that everything was okay, he had unchained him. He had taken his statement, later, he had heard the words he had said. He had read the medical chart, he had been the one who had held in his hands his rape kit and given it to Mycroft’s assistant. Procedure be damned.  

He had seen John trying not to go to pieces. He had talked to William Moore and listened as Joan gave her statement about what had happened. He had seen Janine’s body, he had remembered how she had flirted with Sherlock and danced with every man at the wedding and her bright smile.

He had – seen Molly afraid, he had seen her crumble down when she had seen her father’s picture.

He was beyond angry, beyond exhausted, so if Mycroft Holmes wanted him to play bait in order to catch those bastards he would.

That might be just a job to Drake, but it was _bloody_ personal to him. It was his town, his friends, the woman he – _loved_ being hurt, being threatened, being in danger.

“We are being followed.” Agent Drake said, speaking for the first time since they had got into the car, breaking his train of thoughts, for which Lestrade was absurdly grateful.

A decade working with Sherlock and a lifetime as a copper had honed his deduction skills and his gut instinct, apparently. He had been right.

“You don’t seem surprised.” Agent Drake said.

“Let’s not involve civilians –“ Lestrade said. Of course, he wasn’t bloody surprised. He was angry.

Drake nodded his head. He had no doubts that the man could lose their tail if he wanted to, but that was not going to happen. He was playing bait for a reason, after all.

Incredibly enough Drake was smiling and for a moment he could not help but doing the same, but it only lasted for a moment, then they saw the car parked sideways blocking the road.

“Shit!” Drake exclaimed.

“Do you have a plan?” Lestrade asked a moment before the first shots came.

“Sort of...” The man said.

They had to survive, first.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was very much aware of the fact that it wouldn’t be long before he would have to get rid of his protection detail, not that it would make a lot of difference whether they were with him or not, but he wanted to avoid useless deaths if at all possible.

It had not taken long to reach the graveyard. He had more or less got a hold of his thoughts, he had banished the unwanted _things_ back where they could not reach him. Facts had proven that he was not safe from the things that lurked in his mind, it didn’t matter how much effort he put into putting things in order in his mind palace, that didn’t mean he could allow his thoughts to get in the way.

 He was well enough to do what he had to. Those people did not play difficult mind games, they were just toying with him, which was trying his patience – he knew perfectly well that he would find John, that they would not physically harm him; the difficult part would be keeping him alive – keeping them both alive, after, when he found him.

He had only been once in that graveyard, right before he had left London. He resolutely refused to dwell on what he had seen that day as he walked down the familiar path to his grave.

He wondered, for a moment, why the headstone had not been removed, he must have deleted the reason – he vaguely recalled a conversation with Mycroft about it and how deeply uninterested he had been in it, insofar that he genuinely had no clue as to why that piece of marble had not been moved.

It did not matter and he surely would not ask Mycroft about it. He had let Harris deal with Mycroft through text, informing him of what he had found in the house. As much as he was repelled by the idea of having to deal with his brother at the moment, he needed to put it all aside. Mycroft had resources he needed – and as much as he hated it, beggars could not be choosers. 

He slowed his pace to a halt when he was next to the graveyard. There were footsteps around the headstone, they looked fresh – and Sherlock honestly didn’t care about the deductions his mind was coming up with. Another pawn, another nameless, faceless moron who followed orders and played their part in that game. Boring.

They wanted him dead, they wanted him to suffer, there was a personal element behind what was going on, what were they waiting for?

There were two sets of keys on the top of his headstone. One only held one key, the other held a dozen or so of small keys, he cocked an eyebrow when he saw the two objects and a picture under them. He held the two sets of keys in one hand and let out an annoyed sigh when he recognised the pool in the picture.

The pool – did they know what that place truly meant to him? Did they choose it for that specific purpose? Did they truly think that it would have an effect on him after having been in _that_ house? After – the past few hours?

 His mobile phone rang, but he ignored it. He pocketed both sets of keys and his fingers brushed over John’s mobile phone.

They wanted him to find John, he was sure that they would not hurt him until he found him – they wanted to bring that game to its climax, to what they perceived as the inevitable outcome.

    He was ready.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t know how long he had been there, on that chair. He had tried to count seconds, to measure time through his heartbeat. He was reasonably sure that he had been silent for a long time,  he had not moved, he was sure about that.

The images had not come right away – he had not expected them, he had not – expected how vivid they had been: his newborn daughter, his baby girl whom he had not even held once, being killed – being shot, like Mary. Over and over.

He was used to violence, he was used to blood, he had spent the past few weeks trying to come to terms with the way his subconscious tried to fuck with him, night after night, but that had been ever worse, somehow – because it did not matter how disgusting and terrifying his nightmares had become, Sherlock was always there when he opened his eyes, without saying a word more often than not, but he scooted closer or used his encyclopaedic knowledge of random things to distract him. 

Sherlock made him laugh after nightmares that twisted his guts and made him want to crawl out of his own skin. Sherlock had nightmares too and his skin was cold, after, and he pretended not to notice because that was what he wanted. He touched him, though – and somehow things became bearable, for both of them.

Not being able to move, not being able to tune out his own thoughts, the white noise growing louder and louder in his ears, the darkness, the faint smell of paint and bleach made him cry out for his daughter, eventually.

He honestly had no idea how long he had asked to see her, how loud he had cried to see her – he didn’t even know whether they had heard him, whether they were looking at him and sending Sherlock images and videos of him going to pieces.  

But they had heard him. He did not hear anything at first, and he was too disoriented, too unsure of his own senses to know whether the vibrations he had felt on the pavement were steps or his imagination. He tried not to flinch when he felt hands on him.

Had Sherlock found him? Had they decided that keeping him in the dark, bound to a chair was not enough? Were they going to step up the game?

He closed his hands in tight fists when first the headphones and then the blindfold were removed.

He squinted his eyes, the light was definitely too strong and harsh, but he could make out a shape in front of him and when the man talked he knew it was the man who had killed Mary. He recognised the voice and his thick Russian accent.

“Do not try anything. My friend here is carrying your daughter, one move and she dies. Are we clear?”

No emotion in his voice. He said those words matter of factly, but only then did he register the presence of the other people in the room. The room itself was bare, except for the chair he was sitting on; the windows were painted black and there were neons on the ceiling.   

The man was saying the truth – there was another man behind him, he was carrying an incubator. He nodded at the man – it was not like he could do anything anyway in his position, but even if he could move, he knew that he would not; he had no doubts the men would have no qualms in killing his daughter right in front of him.

He noticed the other man at the door, he was armed, and he saw that both the Russian man and the man carrying the incubator were carrying guns as well.

They were all wearing ski masks, black clothes and gloves and John wondered why. Even if he could identify them, what would be the point? The Russian man  said something to the other men and the one carrying the incubator pushed it toward him.

He fought the impulse of struggling against the handcuffs, it would be utterly pointless and his daughter’s life depended on him. There was no one else.  

She was there – mere inches away from him and he could not do a bloody thing. Even if they allowed him to do so, he could not touch her: it was not safe, God knew he was far from being clean and so was that room.

“Two minutes.” The Russian man said.

They got out of the room, but John barely noticed. He was a father. It was real. _She_ was real: small but so perfect with her fine blonde hair and her small hands curled into tiny fists. She was sleeping and was utterly innocent. He was still keeping his hands closed into tight fists (the irony was not lost on him), but for different reasons: he desperately wanted to reach out and touch her, make sure she was truly fine, that she was truly alive, that it was not a trick.

He was swallowing past the words he could not say, not yet. He could not tell her that things would be fine, he could not trust his voice – and then his daughter opened her eyes.

“Hey –“ He said, not caring about how hoarse his voice sounded, going against what he had just thought. He had not realised he had shouted himself hoarse before, he had not heard himself – and he did not care.

She was – perfect. He had had doubts during Mary’s pregnancy, he had wondered whether there was even a baby, at first, and then he had wondered whether the baby was his, but there were no doubts looking at her that she was his daughter. She reminded him of Harry – and himself, he recognised that perfect face as if he had seen it a million times before.  

“You are perfect...” He whispered. And she was, and he had to live for his daughter. He had to make sure Sherlock would as well. They were family.

“Everything will be fine, sweetheart.” He said. Mary and him had not chosen a name, and – he would only choose one with Sherlock.

He saw the door open, and forced his body to be still, not to have any reaction as the men entered the room. They were not bluffing, he had seen too many assassins in his life to harbor any doubt on that matter. They would kill his daughter in front of him and use it to get Sherlock.  

He barely resisted that urge, though, when one of the men took his daughter away. She was crying, now. He had not imagined hearing his daughter cry would tear through him like that. All the things he had read about paternal instinct, the voice of blood _were_ true, after all.

“How does it feel to be a complete failure?” The Russian man asked as he blindfolded him again. He did not say a word – he owed it to his daughter and to Sherlock. And to Mary as well. He shied away from the man as he took his chin in his hand, but stilled when the man said, “Couldn’t get there in time for your boyfriend, he did not scream, you know? He took it like a man. And believe me, he did take it all.”

He was taunting him, he wanted a reaction, an excuse, and part of him wanted to fight back, wanted to shut him up. He wanted to kill him.

“Couldn’t save the little wife, can’t even touch your baby girl.” The man continued. And he was – happy to say those words to him. He was enjoying all the pain the people he cared about had endured.

He couldn’t see the man, but he could hear the smile in his voice.

 “You know he will find you.” He heard himself say.

“Oh yes, and he will die” The man said. The sharp, sudden pain in his neck was a shock, he trashed in his chair, he could not help it, even while he felt the drugs quickly work in his system.

He fought the darkness overcoming him, but he was powerless.

The last thing he heard was the man saying, “And it will be on you.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was not midnight, the pool was not empty, he was not alone. There were people, there were Mycroft’s men and he was sure he was being watched by the people who had John. He kept his head high as he walked, his face a blank mask of indifference. The effect of pain killers was fading and Sherlock was glad for it.

 He had been weak when he had accepted it, he had – welcomed the physical numbness, and he felt that he should have focused on the pain, instead. If he had, he would have seen things more clearly, he would have seen through John’s deception, however filled with good intentions it had been.

He curbed those thoughts away. His efforts to keep  focused were proving to be far more difficult than he had anticipated. He had done good in the immediate aftermath of what had happened at Baker Street. He had honestly thought that he would not be distracted by sentiment. He had put an effort into it, but those thoughts kept invading his mind, kept making him weak and useless.

He blinked his eyes, allowing those thoughts to invade his mind once again – and the pool was once again empty, it was once again midnight and he was younger, immensely naive and curious to finally meet Jim Moriarty, after days of wonderfully elegant challenges, except that he had not expected what had come later.

He had not expected – to be ready to be genuinely outraged at the idea of innocent people dying because of a game, he had not been prepared to lose John, he had not expected him to be ready to die for him, he – had been so _clueless_.

He knew exactly where he had to go, he ignored the curious glances thrown his way as he entered the locker room and he knew that, most probably, he would have to forsake his protection detail after that stop.

Agent Harris must know that too, he deduced it in his stance as he was at his side while he stopped in front of the lockers and took one of the set of keys from his pocket.

“You do know that I have to do this alone from now on, don’t you?” He said.

For a moment he was curious to know the man’s name, he had deduced everything else about the man, but he did not ask. It didn’t truly matter. He would have to ask John. John talked to those men, John – was the kind of man who cared.

“I’m aware of that, sir.” The man said.

“And how are Mr. Drake and Lestrade? Any progress?” He asked.

Agent Harris did not look surprised by his words, by the fact that he had deduced that the two men were working together; despite all the evidence to the contrary he had not lost his mind completely, he could still make inferences, he could still deduce things and he was absurdly glad for the fact that the tall, bulky man who had been one of his shadows ever since his stay at the hospital had not forgot that.

He looked at the lockers and the key in his hand, and didn’t acknowledge Agent Harris as the man said, “I have not been updated for the past hour, sir.”

He did not sound worried, but then again why should he be? That was just a job for him, he might be too empathetic for his own good, but he would have another assignment after that, his life was not at stake, nor were the people he loved in any danger.

He shook his head, focusing back on the lockers and the key; he knew, without a ounce of doubt that locker number 21 would open with the key he had found at the graveyard and he knew that each and every inquiry about whose locker was that, whom it belonged to,  would be a dead end, nevertheless he sent one of the agents to do exactly that.  

 He had to refrain from rolling his eyes when Harris took a step forward and insisted on opening the locker. How he could still not see that they would not harm him? Not at that stage?

“Humour me, sir.” Harris said. He must have showed his annoyance more than he had suspected, he thought. Harris took the plastic bag in the locker and inspected it as he said, “I understand your concerns, sir – but I still have my orders.”

He handed him the bag after that: there was only a mobile phone and a picture in it. Sherlock recognised immediately Mary’s house – and he had to correct his initial thoughts of adding John, because Baker Street’s was the man’s home.

There was something written behind the picture, two words – instructions, Sherlock realised: house and phone.

He switched on the phone, but it was password protected and he was in no hurry to find out the password, he was sure he would be given it when he went to Mary’s house.

His mobile phone ringed – Harris’ did as well. One look at the man after he answered his own phone convinced him not to ignore the call.

“My office.” Mycroft only said when he answered.

“I can’t.” Sherlock replied. He was surprised by how words were coming out of his mouth, since talking to his brother was the very last thing he wanted.

“You must.” Mycroft replied. His tone booked no arguments.

He disconnected the call.

Agent Harris had already his orders, Mycroft’s phone call had been but a courtesy. He hoped it would not be yet another colossal waste of time.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had not calmed down since he had left Baker Street. On the contrary, the tenuous grasp on his emotions he had showed at Scotland Yard was fraying at the edges. Mycroft knew that he was the only person who could see how much his brother was trying to hang to rationality and facts, while _sentiment_ was threatening each move he was making, each thought he was having.  

He was shutting off in order to avoid that, Mycroft noticed, he was reverting to his oldest tricks, he was icily civil to him, barely moving a muscle as he talked and Mycroft needed his brother to fight, not to concede victory and sacrifice himself as he was clearly intent to do.

 He let Anthea speak, allowing him to glimpse the things he – _they_ – usually kept carefully under wraps. It was petty, perhaps – but his brother could be childish and if it could help him, then so be it.

“Mr Bennett went to extreme lengths to cover up his financial records and it proved to be even more difficult to retrieve useful data from his mobile phones and computers.” Anthea said.

“But we have been able to retrieve fragments of chats and e-mails dating back from the time of your ‘death’ onward,” Mycroft said, interrupting Anthea. He made sure to smile at her, he needed Sherlock to have a reaction, even if prompted by petty and juvenile feelings. Appealing to his intellect, to his mind had not worked, it had been too soon, and he should have taken into account that John Watson was and had always been the exception to every rule as far as Sherlock was concerned.

That said, his brother could not and would not give up himself to be killed.  

“Mr. Bennett knew his way around the dark web,” Anthea said, “and so did many people who were mourning Jim Moriarty at the time.”

“And why weren’t those people monitored?” Sherlock asked, “I distinctly remember your reassurance that things were under control.”

“They were.” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock let out a snort and said, “As recent events abundantly prove.”

Laying blames would not solve things, but he let Sherlock talk. He had to admit that they should have monitored things more closely, though.

“There was a particular member of one of the chats Mr Bennett was part of who kept repeating that you were alive, that they had proof.” Anthea said, ignoring Sherlock’s words, “before they went off the grid and started using more sophisticated encryption systems they were starting to talk about ways to destroy you.”

“Deconstruct you, take everything away from you, bit by bit.” Mycroft finished for Anthea, “Mr. Bennett was a psychopath, a sadist, but up until a year ago he was _not_ a killer. He had found ways to sublimate and channel his impulses – until he was convinced to give in to his impulses to honor Jim Moriarty’s memory and have you notice him.”

His brother was reading the report he had been given when he had come to his office, he was pretending to ignore him, but he was listening, so he said, “There were two or three monikers who were actively trying to recruit people in that chat. We took measures, but it is likely that they, nevertheless, continued  with other means.”

Sherlock didn’t even look up from the page he was reading, but he saw he was clenching his jaws. Good. He could work with that. He needed that.

“And those people clearly used Moriarty, turned him into a martyr and used his death to wave a new net.” Sherlock looked up from the file he had been reading and said, “I can still read, Mycroft and I am _not_ an idiot!”

Good. Excellent. His brother was coming out of whichever dark place his mind was conjuring up. He was angry.

“One moniker in particular insisted on you being alive, on having faked your suicide – and on destroying you. It was this person who first suggested using telegram, among other means of decryption.” He said.

“And you could have sent me the report through e-mail –“ Sherlock said closing the folder in his hands. It was a fascinating sight to see his brother keeping such a delicate balance between sentiment and rationality in that moment.

He – they needed the dragon slayer who had taken upon himself to destroy Jim Moriarty’s empire and had wanted to survive, to come back to his life, “I have things to do, in case you forgot!” He closed the folder he had been reading and placed it on the armrest of the chair.  

He needed his little brother to survive.

“Did you hear from Mr. Drake and Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.

He was not surprised he knew. He would have been worried if he had not inferred that the two men were working together.

“They lost track of the car, the GPS was found and destroyed, they had a minor – problem an hour ago, but it has been successfully solved,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock shook his head. He did not say anything, he did  not ask about Lestrade’s well being, but he did not need to. The sad truth was that, despite the precarious state of their relationship, they still did not need words to understand each other.

“I won’t need protection any longer.” Sherlock said, after a moment.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at his brother’s words and said, “I don’t think this is wise, Sherlock.”

“And this is not a debate, _brother._ ”  Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft knew he would have to face the consequences of his actions, of his choices, but for the moment – the fire he could see in Sherlock’s eyes was enough to give him hope.

Sherlock asked him about William Moore and Mycroft could not help a little smile when he said, “He is in Chicago making inquiries, with a woman whose resemblance to the late Irene Adler is, apparently, eerie.”

If Sherlock noticed his lie about Mr. Moore’s whereabouts he didn’t show or he did not care, he was not sure which, he also ignored his comments about Ms. Adler, he only asked, “Why Chicago?”

“Because there were a few names that kept appearing in Mr Moore’s searches, therefore he decided to investigate on them. I will keep you informed of the results.” Mycroft replied. That was the truth. Mostly.

“Of course, you will.” Sherlock said. He smiled, but Mycroft was sure that it was the sort of smile he had reserved to the people he had hunted down and disposed of while being away from London. Sherlock rose up from his seat and added, “if the greater good doesn’t keep you otherwise engaged, that is –“

He did not expect forgiveness or understanding from his brother, he had known that using John would have consequences. It did not matter that John had agreed, that he had followed his instructions, that he had trusted him.

Sherlock could not understand at the moment. He didn’t expect him to. He didn’t even dare to hope he would, later. What it mattered was that there would be an aftermath where his brother was alive.

“You might be interested to know that we do have some leads about the person who is behind these events.” He said.

Sherlock did not care. Not at the moment. Sherlock had not cared about the larger scheme of things for too long. That was the problem.

“Be careful,” He said as Sherlock went to the door.

Sherlock turned with a swirl of his coat, he could see physical pain on his face, but his brother’s voice was even when he said, “Why? Losing your pressure point might be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

He levelled Anthea with a cold look and said, “I sincerely hope, for your sake that you won’t be upgraded as such, later.”

It was beneath Sherlock, he wanted to hurt him, but his words lacked its usual edge and bite, which he had hoped to restore with their encounter and which he has briefly succeeded in igniting.

He left the office, without adding anything else. The room felt – empty. Chilly.

“Sir,” Anthea started. She would never say anything personal, not there, not even while they were alone, but he could not take any risk.

“Would you check on Doctor Hooper and Mr. Anderson’s progress? I will join them as soon as I can.”

She wanted to say something, he knew that even without looking at her, she had minutely tensed at his words, it took her almost a second longer than it would normally take before she said, “Yes, sir,” and left his office, her head held high, her posture perfect. She knew better than being hurt by Sherlock’s words or by his dismissal.

He should know better.

“All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.” He said aloud to the empty room.

He had repeated those words to Sherlock, in some form or another, many times, for most of their lives. He didn’t remember them ever sounding so hollow as in that moment.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg Lestrade was impressed. He had dealt with spooks in one way or another for years, especially since he had met Sherlock; the spooks he usually dealt with were silent, efficient, all built like bloody bricks, or with mona lisa smiles, like Mycroft Holmes’ assistant. None of them were like agent Drake.

He had not expected to survive the ambush. Thoughts like, “I’m too old for this shit,” or, “fuck, this is not a movie, these are real bullets!” had crossed his mind, but things had happened too quickly to really register.

 No, not the bullets or how he had shot a gun he wasn’t even supposed to have, or how agent Drake, who was thin, was about his age and was not one for conversation, had dodged bullets as if it was something he did every day and had taken down all but one man.

Only now that said man had been apprehended by some of Drake’s colleagues, things were starting to really register. He could see all the things that could have gone wrong and how seamlessly agent Drake and him had avoided them, almost acting on instinct.

Yes, he was impressed. And glad, very glad to be alive.

“The good news,” Drake said, “is that we have another lead for the car Mr. Watson got on.”

Speaking of cars, their vehicle had been damaged, they were getting a new car, not that it would make any difference if they wanted to make another attempt at their lives.

Drake had returned to look unassuming, just a middle aged bloke who let him into the new car before he got inside as well on the driving seat.

The man must have sensed his doubts because he said, “They didn’t want to kill us or if they did, they hired a bunch of amateurs.”

He didn’t ask how he could be sure. He had been a copper for a long time and he had also seen the video footage of what had happened the previous night to Mary and her protection detail. He was right.

“The bad news,” Drake continued, “is that it’s probably a distraction.”

Lestrade nodded. It was also their only lead, while Sherlock did what he usually did best: uncovered the truth and John and his newborn daughter were God knew where.

It didn’t take them long to get where the car had been left. They hadn’t even bothered to ditch it out of town, to burn it down, that made him think that somehow they had wanted them to find it.

It smelled, sounded and looked like a trap. Another cog in that machine intended to bring Sherlock down. He was honestly starting to miss the mess with  Jim Moriarty.

Nevertheless, they searched the car, they did everything by the book, even if said book had been long thrown away.

 It was too easy: the traces on the pavement, the car left just waiting to be found and the house to their right: old and abandoned. He turned to look at Drake who was writing something down on his mobile phone and had a pensive look on his face.

“So, how is your girl holding up?” Drake asked after a moment of silence, looking at him.

Rushes of adrenaline apparently made him chatty, he thought. And so did following useless leads which would probably only help trap Sherlock.  

“She is _not_ my girl –“ Lestrade hissed, but he noticed the way Drake shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. It was not a mocking smile, it was gentle, genuinely inquisitive. Then again, the man had effortlessly killed three men and subsided another, so he knew that appearances could be deceiving with him.

“She is fine. She texted me when she arrived. She is  a brave _woman_.” Lestrade replied, stressing the last word. Who cared if the man thought Molly and him were together? Molly was not his girl, she was a remarkable woman, not anyone’s girl.

 And yes,  he had definitely showed his hand in the parking lot before leaving, but – he could not bring himself to care. Not at that point.

Being stuck to Sherlock’s protection detail must have been boring to Drake, who truly seemed relaxed and in his element since he had first met him at the hospital.

“There it is...” Drake said, when his mobile phone alerted him of an incoming e-mail.

“What?” Lestrade asked, getting close to him.

“CCTV feeds.” The man replied, turning his mobile phone so that he too could see the video feed.

John was unconscious in those images, he was being dumped in a white van, whose license plate was conveniently visible on the CCTV.

“Definitely a distraction!” Lestrade said.

Drake nodded at his words, “I don’t like it,” he said, “it reminds me too much of Mexico.”

“Mexico?” Lestrade asked.

Drake smiled, but there was something bitter in that gesture and in his voice when he said, “I was part of Mr. Holmes’ protection detail there – we had been informed that he was reckless, didn’t follow protocol.”

Despite everything, Lestrade could not help shaking his head and smile at the man’s words, “Now, why this doesn’t surprise me?”

Drake’s smile disappeared, “He knew it was a trap, I had been informed it was not the first time either. This reminds me of that day.”

“What did he do?” Lestrade asked. It sounded right like Sherlock: ignoring and disregard protocol in order to follow leads and get results, but he had also seen what agent Drake had done, there, in London. It must have been – _bad_.   

The man didn’t volunteer any more information and Lestrade didn’t push for it, especially when the man got another message.

“We have the van –“ He said.

“Where is it?” Lestrade asked.

The other side of London, of course. He was not surprised.

 

* * *

 

 

He had only been in that house once. Sherlock remembered clearly how good he had been at finding excuses not to visit that nice house in the suburbs. It was as bright as he remembered, it was cheery and tidy.

He noticed that Mary had not made many changes since the last time he had visited. The only things missing were some of John’s belongings – some of the books and objects she had not brought to Baker Street when she had packed his bags. The objects were there, in the same exact places they had occupied when he had lived there. John had never even mentioned those objects or had expressed any desire to retrieve them.

Mary had removed all the pictures that used to be in the sitting room – pictures of the wedding and of dates with John.

He had seen those pictures the first and only time he had been there, but he had not observed them, he had refused to deduce anything about those images and John’s life with Mary.

He was looking around noticing the distinct lack of the sort of books one would be expected to find in the house of a pregnant woman, especially not an elderly primipara. Considering the fact that they knew nothing about who Mary had really been, he had not enough data to infer that she was even a primipara, he realised.

Not that it mattered. He kept looking around, John had lived there – but there were no tangible signs of him – of his presence. Not even lingering ones.

There were all the vitamins and drugs one would be expected to find in a pregnant woman’s house, they were neatly stacked in the kitchen, which was possibly the only room in the house that felt vaguely real, not a facade.

He noticed a mug in the sink, he took it in his hands and sniffed it, Mary had drunk chamomile tea, apparently. He could clearly see the life she had lead in that house for the past few weeks.

She had been _happy_. It had not been a front she had put up when she had visited Baker Street. She truly had been happy. And he could not understand why.

He was methodical, as always. He examined each room, even the nursery. Before – Herman Bennett, before John and he kissed for the first time, before he smashed his hand against the bathroom’s mirror, before Lestrade brought to his attention Jason Miller’s murder, John had talked about the nursery, how he would have to find time to putting together the crib. He remembered how John had hesitantly admitted that – he was following a tradition, a superstition of his family: no crib until the baby was borne.   

He had not let those words touch him, at the time. He had played his violin, thinking that everything was how it was supposed to be: John with Mary for the baby’s sake, until they got more information about the woman’s past, John and him working together, investigating Moriarty’s seemingly impossible return from the dead.

He had not wanted John’s words to fully register, despite being the one asking him to go back to Mary – but he did remember the nursery’s description – the pale yellow of the walls, the stuffed animals and all the paraphernalia that was apparently necessary for a newborn.

There was nothing in that room. There was a newborn baby, John’s daughter, whose life depended on him, at the moment. There was -  a woman who had asked for her daughter, just before being shot to the head.

There were clues to be uncovered and he knew – that the game was nearing its climax. He closed the door, he had left the bedroom for last. It was irrational, he was painfully aware of that, just like he caught the hesitation in his steps as he walked toward the room.

He could not hesitate. He truly could not.

“Here we are...” He said and his voice sounded louder in that empty house.

He opened the door.

 

* * *

 

 

There had been a 200 seconds blackout in the CCTV feeds. Drake informed him of that fact while they were in front of the white van and, most importantly, the house from which three men had got out carrying an unconscious John.

It was possibly the same people who had hacked every single server in the country and plastered Jim Moriarty’s face everywhere. It was the same people who thought nothing of shooting people in the middle of the streets, and having a former MI6 with a vest filled with explosives strapped to his chest while his fiancé got kidnapped or a civil driving to Baker Street with a car filled with semtex.

He was not, in any way, surprised by Drake’s words. That was where their lead absolutely went cold. That was – where John had been kept for hours. They had called for backup, the operatives were all dealing with the white van, but Drake and he were to inspect the house.

Those were Mycroft’s orders – apparently, Sherlock’s brother only wanted people he could trust inside that house.

The house in itself was absolutely nondescript – there was nothing out of place, nothing that stood out, much like Herman Bennett’s house. He wondered whether someone was actually following the money – keeping tabs on who in the bloody hell had bought those properties. In his experience, following the money, got results.

He mentioned his thoughts to Drake who said, “They’re already on it – but those people are not amateurs, Lestrade.”

Greg nodded and snorted when Drake added, “We aren’t either.”

It was like being on a crime scene – except that it felt like most of London was a crime scene, now. They were not looking for fingerprints or DNA, not yet – they were just looking around, trying to find some clue about where they had taken John.

It was not as bad as Herman Bennett’s house – at least it didn’t smell like something (or a lot of someones) had died in there, but it still turned his stomach. And he was far from being squeamish.

They found the room where John must have been kept first: it was bare, except for a chair screwed to the pavement. He knew that John must have been there because his coat was there, there was no blood – and he felt relieved. The very last thing he wanted was to tell Sherlock that he had found John’s blood.

That would not go over well.

There was a blindfold, an iPod, and headphones on the floor and he absolutely refused to let his mind dwell on those objects. It was Drake who took the items and listened for a second to whatever was coming out of those headphones.

The man shook his head and bagged the items in an evidence bag.

“White noise.” He only said, replying to his implicit question.

Fuck. Well, at least they didn’t start cutting off John’s fingers, he reasoned. Victor Trevor had had it much worse.

But then again, they also had killed John’s wife and had his daughter.

They saw the room that had been clearly used as a delivery room. He had been in the delivery room when his kids were born, and it was – the same smell, and he noticed that there was far too much blood.

Mary had been kept there – and there wasn’t any trace of her in the CCTV feeds. How did they pull it off? So, that was – the house where she had been killed. They would find her body – and he truly did not look forward to it.

And where the hell was John’s daughter? Was she even alive?

He followed Drake outside, he could see the wheels turning in his head – and his own instinct was telling him that something didn’t add up. He was not a genius, he was not Sherlock Holmes, but – things felt _wrong_ in that house.

Yes, it was a trap. He was aware of that. Yes, they had clearly meant for them to find the van and the house – but still, things felt _fake_ in that house, like a scene from a play.

That feeling became almost violent when they got into a room downstairs. It was a windowless room, there were white panels at its center, there were still cameras and a chair. And there was blood, and the copper in him, the man who had worked on far too many murders could not help but notice how not right things were in that room. It was the same room they had seen in the streaming video from that mobile phone, he recognised it immediately, but seeing it – for real was vastly different.

Sherlock had asked Molly and Anderson, of all people, to examine the video more closely and, as usual, the bastard was right. Even while he was going to pieces before his very eyes he was still the smartest person he had ever met.

Mary’s body was not there. He exchanged a glance with Drake, who was looking around – and he could see how he was furrowing his brow; things did not add up.

“Something isn’t right...” Drake said, voicing his thoughts.

Crime scenes – were not like that. The blood pattern was right, apparently, but what he was seeing was not what they had all seen on screen. 

“Call your girl, skype her or facetime her or whatever – she needs to see this!” Drake said.

He was right. Molly definitely needed to see that crime scene.

He was not sure _that_ was a crime scene – at all.

 

* * *

 

 

 Somehow it did not surprise Sherlock to see the items on John’s night table. He had never seen that room, but he shared a bed with John. He knew which side of the bed the man slept on.

And it did not matter, in the least, that their bed sharing had stopped being platonic only very recently. Mary had kept sleeping on her side of the bed, he deduced: there was a book on her night table, a box of kleened, the tv remote and nothing else. 

Mary had been very methodical – he had noticed it in the house. If he had not known for a fact that she had been an assassin, he would not have – deduced it from her house. She had kept up the facade, but there was a military precision in the house that he had not missed, that it surely didn’t belong to John.

He sat on the bed, on John’s side: there was a bottle with three pills in it and a sheet with instructions written on it.

So, there he was. He was – relieved, actually.

He had told himself that he would not see the video in John’s mobile phone, that it would be like admitting defeat. He did not particularly care about those thoughts when he took John’s mobile from his pocket. He did not even hesitate before pressing play.

John was pale, he could hear the shower running in the background, he looked exhausted and determined and – yes, he missed him. He was worried about him.

“I know you are pissed right now.” John was saying in the video, “and you are wondering why I didn’t tell you.”

There was a small pause, John blinked his eyes, “I guess –“ He said, “I know why you did not tell _me_. I have no choice, Sherlock. I truly don’t. It's not a choice I could ever make.”

He would have to tell John that he was wrong – he planned on telling him when he found him.

“Don’t think,” John said, “not even for a second, that it’s your fault. I am not choosing my daughter over you. I am trusting you to be Sherlock Holmes.”

John smiled – he had whispered, and Sherlock didn’t know one could fall in love with the same person all over again. John Watson had just proved him that it was entirely possible.

“I am sorry.” John said, “and for what is worth? I truly understand now – I forgive you.”

He did not need to elaborate – and he was completely sincere. John didn’t know, though, that the enormity of what he had done three years before had only caught with him later. At the time, sentiment had been just at the periphery of his thoughts, something that threatened to obfuscate reason and he had not allowed that.

John had forgiven him – he truly had.

He blinked his eyes – he was surprised by how calm he was feeling, seeing John – had centered him. As ever – John Watson kept him right. It had happened while he was away from London, away from him, and it was happening again.

He was ready – he truly was.

He took the sheet of paper in his hand – the instructions were clear and he followed them. He shut down his mobile phone, took the battery off and placed it on the night table. He did the same with John’s mobile. He took the mobile phone he found at the pool.

It didn’t surprise him in the least to find the password written down in that sheet of paper. He briefly looked around: there were no cameras and he knew for a fact that the only bugs in the room were the one put there by Mycroft’s men, he was also very much aware of the fact that, despite his requests, he must have been followed by Mycroft’s people.

“Do not dare to intervene!” He said aloud to the empty room. He could hear how desperate he must sound and he did not care. Pride had ceased to be an issue for him.

He took the first pill, he swallowed it without water, it was bitter and he just wanted it to be over. He waited.

His hand was perfectly steady when the mobile phone rang and he answered.

The man on the other side of the line said hello, he had an American accent. Somehow he had not expected that. A small part of him, despite all the evidence, despite the facts, had expected to hear Moriarty’s voice.

“Take the second pill.” The man said.

He could already feel the pull of the drug he had ingested. It was strong – strong enough to have an immediate effect on a former junkie.

“It is not necessary,” He said, “I am here. You know I will come willingly.”

He heard a noise, the man sighing, his voice was warm, soft when he said, “Please, Mr. Holmes, take the second pill.”

The man was not used to be contradicted – and that was not the moment to antagonize him. He was talking to the man behind everything that had happened, he realised.  

“Do not cheat – I will be told if you do and there will be _consequences._ ” The man said. He was not bluffing. His voice was still soft, gentle even – but Sherlock knew there would be consequences. How many people had died already for that stupid game?

“When I find you –“ Sherlock trailed.

“You won’t.” The man said, interrupting him. His voice was warm – he was a smoker, part of him deduced, he was sitting down somewhere, in the USA, he was calm, completely in control.

“But I promise you one thing: should you survive this I will give you _one_ clue to find me. Just one.” The man said. His tone became even more soothing when he said,  
“C’mon – for John. He doesn’t have long – you surely know that.”

He took the second pill and closed his eyes. He was already starting to feel numb – almost deliciously so.

“For the record, Mr Holmes, I want you to know that I did not sanction or approve what Herman did to you. I expressly told him to go easy on you.” The man said. He sounded sincere. Against his better judgement Sherlock believed him.

That was why – people flocked to him, he realised. He was convincing.

“Thank you.” He said. His head was spinning. He had to open his eyes, look around, but his voice was still even, calm, when he said, “For the record, I _will_ kill you!”

He was not bluffing either.

The man laughed and even though he heard in his voice that he was not underestimating his threat – he had never underestimated him, apparently, he had been on his radar long before that day, he didn’t sound particularly concerned when he said, “Take the third pill, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock did. John would call him an idiot and so would his brother. Neither of them were there, though.

 “And to make things clear: I am not Jim Moriarty. This ends today. No more games with me, I promise.” The man said.

The wording was strange – but Sherlock didn’t have the time to examine the man’s words. Darkness – numbness felt too inviting, too powerful. He succumbed.

 

* * *

 

 

She was in what was possibly the safest place in England: Mycroft Holmes’ bunker. Molly had had to sign a non disclosure agreement before stepping out of the car. Her protection detail had escorted her – and left her with Mycroft’s assistant.

Anthea had been her link to Mycroft and Sherlock before and after that day at Bart’s. The fact that the woman looked tired had worried Molly.

Her mind, to be completely honest, had kept going back to what had happened in the parking lot on the way to the bunker, which was the very last thing she needed. It had taken her so long to – find a balance in her life after Sherlock’s return – the last thing she had expected was – to feel confused.

There wasn’t time to think about her personal life – there wasn’t time to think about the way Greg had kissed her forehead in the parking lot. There truly wasn’t.

She had chosen to focus on the activity in the bunker, on the fact that Anderson had looked terrified when he had been ushered in  the room.  

She knew the video by heart. She had examined each frame with Anderson – it looked authentic, it had not been tampered with – but still they had kept looking at it because there was something that did not add up. 

She did post-mortems, Anderson had worked on forensics for years – and while they had never seen eye to eye on the rare occasions they had met, they were both good at what they did.

And there was something almost too perfect in that video. Murders were messy affairs – crime scenes were never as glamorous as on telly. On paper everything was like it was supposed to be: the sprays of blood, the exit wound, the way Mary’s head had lolled. And yet – it was too clean. Too perfect.

And then Greg had called. She had been relieved, to the point of having to fight back tears when he called.

He looked – dishelved, worried – but he was okay, he was _alive_ , but there was more than that – he didn’t look like he had for the past few weeks: as if guilt was crushing him. She had tried to tell him, more than once, that he was not responsible for what had happened to Sherlock, but to no avail – she had seen how the past weeks had weighed down on him.

He looked – so alive and bright.

“You need to see this. Is Anderson with you? Put him through!” Greg had said.

They had found the room where Mary had been killed. And – things definitely did not add up.

They were watching the two videos side by side. It had been Anderson’s idea. He had spent two years playing the conspiracy theorist and his attention to detail had become impressive.

“Let’s watch them again,” Anderson said.

She sighed, but couldn’t help a little (alright, maybe not so little) gasp of surprise when Mycroft Holmes got into the room. Anderson paled, and they exchanged a glance when Sherlock’s brother walked behind them and said, “Shall we watch the videos together?”

No one talked, there was an eerie silence in the room as they watched the two videos again. Perhaps it was Mycroft’s presence – or some switch was suddenly flicked, but it was so clear suddenly. That was why Sherlock had asked them to examine the video. If he had been there he would have realised it right away.

“Dear Lord...” Mycroft said behind them.

“Sir?” Anthea called, interrupting him before he could say what had been right under their eyes. Mycroft went to her, she whispered something in his ear and the man left the room without a word.

“It was –“ Molly trailed. How could that be? And why? And why did Mycroft leave in such a hurry?

“They didn’t kill her.” Anderson said. There was genuine disbelief in his voice – and it only echoed what she was feeling, what Greg must have felt before he called her. 

Mary was not dead. It had been a trick. An illusion, like Sherlock had done once. But why?

 

* * *

 

 

He felt numb – and cold. His mouth tasted bitter – and the darkness all around him was not helping things. John knew that moving was a bad idea even before the wave of nausea paralysed him for a moment.

He was on the floor, his wrists were sores, but he wasn’t handcuffed – which, for some reason actually scared him; his back was against something cold and smooth, like glass. He could not see a thing – he waited until the nausea became bearable before attempting to get up again. It worked, more or less. He swayed on his feet and had to blink his eyes and lean against the smooth surface.

He tried to adjust to the darkness, he tried to deduce where he was – he moved, trying to measure  how much space did he have – and he could not help feeling tendrils of claustrophobia when he realised that the smooth surfaces were surrounding him. He was, quite literally, caged, in the dark.

He breathed. Giving into panic would not help things.

“You are awake -” The familiar voice of the Russian man said.

“Where is my daughter?” John asked. He had to focus on his baby girl – he could not allow those tendrils of panic to bloom. He was a soldier – he had been through worse.

“Good news,” The man said, ignoring his words, “your boyfriend is coming!”

 _Oh God. No._ He hated that he felt relief at those words, he hated that he had helped those people – he hated that he was in a fucking cage, in the dark.

“This is going to be so much fun...” The man said.

John’s legs gave out. He would not – could not crumble down. He needed to be strong – Sherlock would need his help soon.

The fact that he could not breathe, that his heartbeat was deafening him meant nothing. He was _not_ crumbling down.

The Russian’s man laughter mocked him and the lies he was telling himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Things were fucked up. William Moore definitely didn’t like the latest updates he was getting. When his mobile rang, he lived a moment of authentic dread – only partially mitigated by the fact that it was Irene Adler’s number.

She had promised to update him as soon as she had news – and for some reason a woman known for her lack of moral scruples was keeping her word. Yes, things were fucked up. Definitely.  

“Ms. Adler...” William said.

“I have already updated Mr. Holmes,” She said, “but I thought you would want to know.”

 She was good – he wondered whether Mycroft Holmes had ever entertained the idea of hiring her. Ms. Adler told him that there were no pictures of Brian Cooper’s wife – the woman had somehow avoided all cameras, but one Emily Abel had identified Cooper’s body at the morgue, paid for a funeral in cash and had been its only attendant.

Ms. Abel had departed from Heathrow a few days before identifying Cooper’s body. All records of her travel had disappeared from databases both in the UK and USA. In the three days during which the John Doe, later identified as Brian Cooper, had laid in the morgue, there had been at least eight unsolved murders of local petty criminals, at the time the police had not thought much of it – criminals fought each other, killed each other, no one had felt the urge to really look into those murders.

No one had noticed that although all the men had been killed using different weapons, they had one thing in common: their killer was a professional.

The murders stopped abruptly when Cooper’s body was identified. According to Ms. Adler who had shown Mary Watson’s picture around in the graveyard, Emily Abel bore  a striking resemblance to the woman in the picture.

“She left right after the funeral – there are fresh flowers on Cooper’s grave every week, but no one ever sees who puts them there.” Ms. Adler said.

“What did Mr. Holmes say?” William asked. Did Ms. Adler know that Sherlock was probably already in the hands of – a deranged assassin whose husband he had killed? Did Mycroft?

“He did not say much,” She replied smoothly. Too smoothly. She was lying, and he honestly didn’t care why. She knew what was going on. She had to. He suspected she might know even more than he did.

“It’s been a pleasure –“ Ms. Adler said. She must have been very good at what she did. He sincerely hoped he would never have to meet her again. 

Her voice sounded genuinely worried when she added, “Do whatever Mr. Holmes asks you to. I am sure there is a reason why you are going back home.”

He was not as sure, but he said, “I will do my best.”

“Does Sherlock know – about Mary?” He added.

“No.” She replied, “Mr. Holmes could not reach him.”

She disconnected the call. William still did not know why Mycroft Holmes wanted him back in London – what were his plans for him.

He suspected he was going to find out soon, though.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_The sky was white – almost unnaturally so. It was uncommon for Regent’s Park to be so empty during the day – but he did not complain. John was with him, after all. It was all that mattered, wasn’t it? It was -  perfect._

_They had never walked hand in hand before, but it felt absolutely normal – and right, and Sherlock was enjoying the calm of his surroundings. How long since he had felt such a sense of peacefulness in his mind? Everything was exactly like it was supposed to be: his mind palace was pristine, his body didn’t hurt – and that was a feeling he had sorely missed. One could get, of course, used to physical pain, one could thrive despite physical pain – but the feeling of his body intact, of his muscles, bones, and sinews unhurt was almost intoxicating._

_There had been pain, he knew. There had been – noise and darkness and poison in his mind for a long time, so much that it had become part of him – he had had to redesign his mind palace and relearn to think around that toxic content._

_He was whole, now. He was with John._

_“You know?” John asked, interrupting his musings, “You never told me how you did it.”_

_Sherlock stopped walking and John did the same, he bumped into him and didn’t step back. There was no need to, not anymore._

_“How did I do what? You might want to be specific, John.” He said._

_“How did you survive the fall?” John asked._

_He swallowed. No. That belonged to the past – that belonged to (_ the real world _) those things that did not matter any longer._

_“I am not sure I truly did.” He said – but that was not what he had meant to say._

_He –_

_He did not remember how he survived the fall. Did he delete it? Did it get swallowed up by the poison, the darkness in his mind palace?_

_“Of course you did!” John said. John – John was and would always keep him tethered._

_He was smiling – and it was the smile he knew so well, the one he felt against his skin, in bed, the one – that was his only._

_He had resisted loving John. He didn’t even remember why. He had – believed that he could not and would not have_ that _:  John kissing him, without any particular reason except that he could – they could._

_He was Sherlock Holmes, and he had been humbled by his love for the man in his arms. He was Sherlock Holmes, and a genius without a heart might have worked before – it might have been convenient, but – John had changed everything._

_It was perfect – too perfect, he knew, deep down, that it could not possibly be real._

_He could feel John’s body against his, could taste him – but he was_ not _there._

_For a moment, just one moment, he chose not to care._

_He didn’t live in a world where his mind palace was pristine and his body whole. He didn’t live in a world where everything was perfect and there were no threats._

_“You promised you would always come back for me.” John mumbled against his skin. It felt real, he could feel John’s breath against his neck._

_He wished it was real._

_“You know I will. I always will!” He said. It was the truth. It was possibly the only real thing he was experiencing._

_No. John loved him. He knew that. And he loved John, that, too, was real._

_He looked around – they were near the Ornamental Pond, near Sussex Terrace – and he had no idea about how they had got there._

_There were people skating on the frozen pond. They were not alone any longer – and white was surrounding him, now: above him, around him, underneath him. They were on the ice._

_He looked at the people noticing their attires and his mind – his mind was still poisonous._

_January 1867 – at least judging by those people’s clothes._

_Red. There was red too – it was blood, it was spreading on the ice, trailing down those people’s bodies._

_“Oh, God...” John whispered._

_Sherlock blinked – he knew those people. He had seen their faces countless times: he did not know their names, not all of them, but he recognised Jason Miller gracefully skating on the ice, blood dotting the pavement, like confetti._

_He recognised the other women and men – they were all skating, all shedding blood, and they were close. Too close._

_He felt the first cracks in the ice._

_Of course, January 1867, Regent’s Park._

_The drugs must have been even stronger than he suspected, part of him thought, but he was holding John even while he told him: “We need to get away, now!”_

_People, God, there were so many people skating, walking on the ice, shedding blood and he recognised them all._

_There was a Turkish man he had shot, he could see the bullet hole in his neck; there were people he had shot, people he had killed bare handed, he was seeing broken necks and bones protruding  from some of the bodies and he could see, smell blood. There was so much blood._

_And he could hear the buzz rising, they were talking, he could not understand what they were saying, it didn’t matter – John and him needed to step away from the ice, before it broke._

_It was January, 1867, wasn’t it? They were at Regent’s Park – and the ice was going to break._

_He could not move, though – not when he saw Janine and Herman Bennett, skating hand in hand, pivoting and laughing and their blood was mingling and he had to shake his head, he needed to wake up._

_He needed to move – John was pulling him away, but he could not move a muscle._

_(_ Paralysing drug? No. Where would the fun in that be? No, it was something else.)

_“Get away, John!” He said. He screamed, but he saw that John could not move either. The cracks in the ice were getting deeper._

_“It’s just a dream – it’s just a dream – it’s just a dream!” Sherlock chanted, closing his eyes. He needed to wake up. It was not the worst nightmare he had ever had – the fear, though, the drugs in his system made it – different._

_He knew – he remembered he had taken the three pills. He remembered why he had taken them._

_His world was not perfect, his body was not whole, his mind was – a disaster zone, and he knew that when he woke up he would – die, most probably._

_But John – he needed to get John away from the ice (_ save him, uphold his vow, telling him he loved him.).

_“Daddy!” Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard the little girl’s voice._

_He was not a father – but that voice – he knew whom it belonged to._

_She was at the centre of the lake, she was dressed in white, her curly blonde hair the same hue of John. She was crying. She was innocent, surrounded by ice and blood and he knew it was a dream. He knew it was not real. She was not his daughter, she wasn’t even John’s._

_It was a trick_ (he was good at those. He broke hearts and bled and killed. Wasn’t he an artist?) _, but it didn’t stop both John and him from running toward her. The ice was cracking under them, it would not hold for much longer._

 _It had been a tragedy, after all – forty deaths, hundreds of wounded, he had read about it. He had rolled his eyes at_ people _, at how stupid they were, ignoring simple physics._

_The little girl was not there when they got at the centre of the pond._

_“You will_ never _learn, Sherlock!”_

_Of course. Every fairy tale needed a villain. Every dream – needed a shadow. Jim Moriarty was there. He was always there, wasn’t he? Locked up in a padded cell in his mind palace, plastered on every screen in the country, on the lips of the man who had raped him and tortured him._

_He had his name carved on his chest._

_He looked around. John was not there._

_Good. It was better that he didn’t see. Didn’t know._

_Moriarty was not far. He was smiling, he wasn’t wearing Victorian clothes. He did not need to masquerade._

_“So ordinary!” He said, stomping a foot on the pavement._

_“So predictable!” He added, stomping his foot down again. He was smiling, he was bleeding. He was – the same old Jim Moriarty, back from the dead to remind him that he was ordinary. He was – a fraud, wasn’t he?_

_Moriarty stomped his foot down again and Sherlock felt the ground beneath his feet shake._

_“What do you want?” He asked._

_Moriarty walked toward him, uncaring of the cracks in the ice, he was bleeding and he watched with fascination as his own blood spread on the ice._

_“So blind.” Moriarty said. The ice cracked completely at his words. “So, so, gullible.”_

_The water was icy cold. He could not breathe, he could not move._

_“Who’s missing, huh?” Moriarty said, squatting above him on the ice. “Huh? What did you miss all along? It was right in front of you the whole time. The viper in the bosom, the wolf in sheep’s clothing – the spider, the praying mantis. Huh?”_

_It did not matter. He was drowning. It would be over soon._

_“It’s a dream, you doofus!”Moriarty said, he sounded disappointed, he sounded like he was about to blown his own head off again._

_“Wake up, Sherlock, it’s time to know who did this to you.” Moriarty said._

_“I know who did this to me.” Sherlock said. His voice was strong even if his lips were numb._

_Moriarty shook his head, “Do you? Why don’t you wake up, then?”_

He was not drowning. He was not numb. Moriarty was still dead.

 His mind was surprisingly clear given the drugs he had ingested and the adrenaline he could taste in the back of his throat.

Sherlock blinked his eyes, he was – alive. He was on the pavement, plexiglass walls covering three sides except for the wall behind him. One side was obscured, he squinted his eyes noticing the pigmentation in the glass. It was possibly something controlled remotely.  

“Oh, I see.” He said aloud.

He got up, swaying slightly on his legs, when he heard the steps nearing his – well, there was not an elegant way to put it, was it? He was in a cage.

He heard John – his gasp of surprise, even before he saw her. She was wearing a grey suit, black high heeled shoes, her face was puffy and bruised, but she was smiling, and it was a genuine smile, he was disappointed with himself that he might have ever bought her smiles as genuine before.

She was smiling and she was most definitely not dead.

There was a man behind her, and for a moment, just one moment, despite everything, Sherlock believed that he had not been wrong about her.

Mary tilted a finger up, signalling him to wait before speaking and she calmly turned toward the man behind her. He saw the knife before the man did. He did not say a word, even if he had wanted to, there wouldn’t have been enough time.

She was a killer, after all, and she was good at what she did: perfect technique, a knife straight to the heart. The man dropped at her feet uttering something in Russian.

“So,” Mary said, “Any questions?”

 


	19. All the ducks in a row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had closed the doors in the dungeons of his mind palace but, perhaps, she was the main reason why they had been bolted open in the first place.
> 
> Mary – Emily – AGRA or whoever the woman in front of him truly was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a nightmare to write. I binned it twice before finishing it. Any resemblance to what appeared in season 4 is totally unintentional. Believe me.  
> I have split it into different parts or you'd have got a 50k words chapter:)  
> The whole plot of this fan-fiction was written down from April to August 2015. I was robbed (my laptop, my two kindles and the notebook where I had written all the plot down) in August 2016 and had to rewrite a big chunk of chapter 9 and 10. I am still not entirely satisfied with the chapter, therefore constructive criticism and feedback are welcome.  
> Enjoy!

 

He had not anticipated the bomb in the Watsons’ residence. He knew for a fact that it had not been there the previous day; whether it had been Mary placing it or someone else did after what it clearly had been a fake ambush, the fact remained that there had been a breach in the protection and security detail.

There had been casualties.

And Sherlock had been taken.

Had he watched the video of Mary’s fake execution right away, he would have intervened, he would have stopped Sherlock from recklessly falling for a trap, for blindly play that game.

He hadn’t.

He had needed his brother to do what others couldn’t. He had needed Sherlock to get out of the numbness that had shrouded him.

There was more, however: he had needed Sherlock to be bait because he had been right when he had deduced that he had had to check whether his ducks were all still in a row – and they most definitely weren’t. He was sure Sherlock would not be surprised in the least if he knew. He would not even care.

He checked his watch and took his mobile phone from his breast pocket right as it rang. Perfect timing. He was not surprised.

“Did you consider my offer?” He said as a way of greeting.

There was no time for small talk and both his interlocutor and he were painfully aware of that.

He listened to what was being said to him. He had pondered the options, considered the risks, deemed them acceptable – but it all depended on the answer he would get.

He smiled. The answer was yes – and he was not truly surprised.

“Are you aware of all the risks?” He asked. And he knew he did not need to elaborate on his words. He didn’t need to make any sort of threat.

Another affirmative answer. He noticed right away the lack of hesitation on the other side of the phone.

“And are you aware that the terms are _not_ negotiable?” He added.

An impatient huff of breath on the other side of the line and another affirmative answer.

He, too, was aware of the risks, of the terms, of the consequences. It was unorthodox and it could spectacularly backfire, but it was also – unexpected and deviated from his usual modus operandi and whenever one dealt with invisible enemies, who had spent years, apparently, studying their opponents before showing their hands one needed to change, to do the unexpected.

That was something that, sadly, his brother had never truly learned to do.

“I’ll keep in touch,” He said and disconnected the call.

Of course, only Sherlock would deduce how on edge he really was, it would just take him a look, it would just take him to see the way he was gripping the mobile phone in his hands to know.

He slowly and deliberately put his phone down, on his desk, and resumed watching the video on his laptop.

The Watsons residence might have gone up in flames, but he had received the video feeds of the last minutes Sherlock had spent in that house without problems.

It was an exercise in futility. It _was_ a waste of time, nevertheless, he had to watch the video again.

He saw his brother entering the Watsons bedroom. He saw the flow of deductions in the sharp look in his brother’s eyes (all of them unimportant). He saw how Sherlock’s eyes fixed on the bedside table and lingered there, for a moment.  He had already watched that moment. He knew now that even before Sherlock asked aloud his protection detail not to intervene that some of those men were being taken down with military precision.

He saw again his brother sitting on the bed, watch a video on John’s mobile phone; he saw how sentiment gave him resolve, willingness to carry on. The night he had first seen Sherlock and John together he had told Anthea that John might be the making of his brother or he could make him worse than ever.

He still wasn’t sure which was the truth – but John Watson did make his brother stronger.

He saw Sherlock reading instructions on a sheet of paper, take the first pill and a moment later the mobile phone he had found in a locker rang. He saw and heard only Sherlock’s end of the conversation – and yes, he should have ended it right there, he thought again – because it was clear that Sherlock did not care about the larger scheme, he didn’t truly have a plan and didn’t honestly care about surviving.

Sherlock wouldn’t have cared if he had known that while he was having a conversation on the phone (surprise upon hearing his interlocutor’s voice, anger) and not asking the right questions, the CCTV cameras in the street had been tampered with, again.

He should not have used Sherlock as bait – it had been a grave miscalculation on his part.

It was clear by how quickly the drugs had taken a hold on Sherlock’s body and the fact that neither the sheet of paper nor the pills had been there the night before that, as the late Herman Bennett and the two men responsible for Janine Hawkins’ death had said repeatedly _they_ were everywhere. It was true – and it was a problem he would have to deal with.

He heard Anthea entering his office; she waited for him to address her, she was keeping a respectful distance, but she was concerned for him and for the breach in security they were facing.

“Sir, they are waiting for you,” She said.

Oh, yes – Sherlock’s friends and the few people whose loyalty he was absolutely certain of were waiting for his instructions.

He closed the laptop, “Yes, of course. Any news on agent Harris?” He asked.

He looked at Anthea, then: she kept her face blank as she said, “He is on his way here,”

She didn’t need to give him further details: agent Harris had been wounded but had left the hospital against medical advice.

“Sir, William Moore’s airplane is about to land – ETA thirty minutes,“ Anthea added.

A lot could happen in thirty minutes, nevertheless, he said, “I need his file,”

He remembered the man’s file, of course. He had already read it – but he had not known about Mary Morstan’s involvement in the current events, not the full extent of it. Yet, he couldn’t help going back to an element that had not sit well with him from the very first moment: why did they choose William Moore and Joan Adams for their little games?

He had thought, at first, that choosing Mr. Moore had been an oversight – that it logically didn’t make sense to target a recently retired MI6 field agent. He had thought it to be a hazard, a useless risk on those people’s part – especially after it had become clear that neither Mr. Moore or Ms. Adams had ever crossed paths with Sherlock, Jim Moriarty or him.

He also knew for a fact that William Moore had never met Mary in any of her incarnations. What about Joan Adams, however?

They surely had not been chosen because of their names, chosen professions or physical features.

Mary Morstan had a personal grudge against Sherlock because he had killed her husband – therefore, her grief had been used as a weapon – but it still did not explain the choice of that particular man as a foil to his brother for revenge.

“We are working on identifying the Russian’s man in the video,” Anthea continued, “Victor Trevor has recognised his voice.”

Good. They needed to find out not only Mary’s whereabouts and her exact role in the new chain of command but also everyone else who was part of it.

Herman Bennett, the men who had kidnapped Joan Adams, the prison guard found dead in his flat, the two men who had shot Janine Hawkins and the surviving member of the team that had distracted agent Drake and detective inspector Lestrade had proved to be useless so far. None of them had given him answers or, at least, none that he deemed acceptable.

The Russian man, however, was more than a pawn, more than a hitman hired for a job. He had watched the video of Mary’s fake execution; he had been pivotal in making things run smoothly, in derailing Sherlock, John, Detective Inspector Lestrade and Ms. Hooper.

He really should have watched that video right away – but he, too,  had been distracted.

“Janine Hawkins’ phone records need to be rechecked  and have someone examine the CCTV feeds close to her flat since January.” He added.

It was what his brother would call a shot in the dark; something not corroborated by facts – Ms. Hawkins’ background had been already checked, but there had not been enough time to investigate further on her life: too much had happened in such a short amount of time.

“Yes, sir,” Anthea replied.

He was uncertain whether Sherlock and his doctor were still alive. He reasoned that if, as he suspected, they were in Mary’s hands, she would take her time before killing them. She had wormed her way into John Watson’s life, she could have hunted Sherlock down; she certainly had the skills and means to do so, instead she had chosen to employ a completely different strategy, a long-term plan; she had worked too hard at weakening Sherlock, at destabilising him, she had been subtle and pervasive to the point that he had not suspected foul play either.

Perhaps, he admitted, part of him had thought that Sherlock would revert back to his old self, to his old life, once John Watson would marry. He had thought that he would suffer, yes, but he would go back to what he knew, to a life without attachments or weaknesses. He had believed Sherlock would be safe.

Needless to say, he had been spectacularly wrong. He truly had seen but not observed. He had not wanted to.

Meanwhile, there were people going through Herman Bennett’s financial and electronic records with a fine comb, and the same was being done to the people – alive or dead – involved in that scheme.

Because it was a scheme, a plan, clearly: distraction after distraction for years.

The person behind it all, the person Sherlock had spoken to the phone, the one working with Mary, had been extremely careful, to the point that no one had seen his or her rise to power.

Something must have changed, however. What had changed? Why? How?

 “Call in a meeting,” He said.

“Of course, sir –“ Anthea said. She did not need to ask for details, as ever.

Anthea left without adding another word and Mycroft took a moment to put together all the pieces he had in front of him: grave oversights, possible alliances and someone who had lurked so well that he had not seen his or her rise to power.

And his brother, possibly making the same mistakes he had done since he had come back: caring too much, sacrificing himself mistakenly thinking that it could save John Watson’s life.

* * *

 

 

Part of him had known it was her  – the deepest part, in the recesses of his mind, the one not blinded by sentiment,  the one that functioned on instinct and darkness alone.

He had closed the doors in the dungeons of his mind palace but, perhaps, she was the main reason why they had been bolted open in the first place.

Mary – Emily – AGRA or whoever the woman in front of him truly was.

She was smiling, she looked happy, despite the clear physical discomfort she was feeling, despite the bruises on her face where she had been pistol whipped – that part of the video, at least, had been genuine.

She had let him glimpse that happiness before when she had come to Baker Street – and it had not made sense to him, it had defied logic at the time – how blind he had been.

_Tell him we’re even now._

The pieces were falling into place so quickly that Sherlock felt dizzy. It was all so blindingly obvious that only a man who had had troubles feeling his own skin and the ground underneath his feet, like he had been for the past weeks, would not have seen.

And before – a man so desperate to make up for his mistakes, so needy and starved for human contact, for the one person he could not live without, that had refused to see the evidence.

“Is John all right?” He asked.

Had it been anyone else, any of his many foes, he would not have asked that question. There was no point in trying and lying to Mary. She knew. She had always known.

He had been _grateful_ when he had realised, shortly after his return, that although she was very much aware of his feelings – if not the exact nature, he had thought, at least, the depth of them – she had never tried to come between John and him.

How spectacularly wrong he had been.

“He’s right here,” Mary replied, “you heard him. You can ask him yourself.”

“I’m fine,” John said.

He could not see him, but his voice was clear, loud. He must be in the same room he was in, perhaps beyond the wall on his left side

“Mary –“ He said, “whatever –“

“Oh, Sherlock –“ Mary said, “we’ve been here before. Last time you said those words I shot you.”

Excellent retentive memory – a past they had not uncovered, except for a few tidbits and whatever William Moore and Irene Adler might have unveiled for the past twenty-four hours.

Facts. He needed facts. He needed data.

He looked around noticing the ventilation grids on the wall recently built behind him, the single bottled water on the floor, a chair, a trolley filled with six small numbered safes, a TV screen on the wall underneath the ventilation grids. There were no holes to let oxygen in, he noticed.

Facts.

His coat’s pockets were empty and there was a tear in the right sleeve, right where the GPS had been. The GPS had been Mycroft’s idea, one John had been only too happy with after he had gone off on his own in order to find Joan Adams.

It was useless – he had been right.

His watch was missing too. He could not say how long it had been since he had taken the last pill in Mary’s bedroom. It was puerile to think of that room in those terms, but it was also the truth. 

“I don’t suppose you will shoot me this time,” Sherlock said.

The fact alone that he was in a Plexiglas cage, the fact that he was not bound or any of the dull means to hold him that had been used in the past clearly told him that Mary would not just shoot him. Not that time.

“How long?” He asked. He knew the answer – deep down, right where Moriarty was snickering in his padded cell with a straightjacket.

The smart clothes, the ring on her right finger, the high heels, the dead man at her feet, the splatters of blood on her hands. It was all choreography. She had anticipated that moment for a very long time. She had worked hard: a true spider, a praying mantis, a wolf in sheep’s clothing indeed.

“Do I look like a James Bond villain to you?” Mary said, “Deduce it, Sherlock.”

She had appeared in London, bought her identity and built it, brick by brick, years before he had faked his suicide.

“Moriarty?” He said.

“Blew his head off. He’s dead,” Mary said, “but you already know that. You never really believed that part, did you?”

He hadn’t. Not really. He had seen Jim Moriarty die – he had seen him pull the trigger, he had replayed that scene in his mind countless times long before Herman Bennett had uttered those words and he had – frozen. But that was not what he had asked. He needed to be specific. He needed to _think_.

“Did you work for Moriarty?” He specified. 

“Nope. Never got on board the crazy train,” She said.

 It was the truth – she had no reason to lie, not at that point, not about that. She was many things, but she was _not_ crazy, not in the way Jim Moriarty had been, at least. She was using a nondescript American accent, but he could hear a vaguely Eastern European inflection in her words.

“Then how did you know –“ Sherlock trailed.

“John’s notes of your cases, oh, and his journal,” Mary claimed, interrupting him, “his private journal.”

He heard John – the way his breath itched at those words.

“Way more touching than your farewell message on your phone, John,” Mary added with a smile.

Ah,  the phones were gone too, clearly – so, no way to locate them through them either. Not that he had expected it.

She was sincere, but she was also mocking John – mocking his love for him, the grief he must have felt after he had faked his suicide. And her words also explained how those people had known all the things that only John and he had been privy of – the things that had made him doubt, deep down, whether Moriarty was truly dead.

John had written some of those things on his blog, but he had left the details that mattered to his notes and his journal – one he had not even been aware of, possibly because he had started it after he had faked his suicide – and they had not lived together up until a few weeks before and when it happened, when they were finally together, he had not – pried. He had had other things in his mind.

On one thing Jim Moriarty had been right – once again he had wanted things to be clever, but the explanation had been much more simple and under his nose all along.

“John –“ He said. He was sorry. He was sorry that he had to hear that and that he had been used like that because of him.

He was sorry that he had not seen everything before, that he had not thought of the most obvious explanation.

Was John in the room with him? Was he okay? Was he with his daughter?

“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John’s voice said. He did not sound fine, however. 

Where was he? There were still drugs in his system, he could feel the effects on his limbs, in the way his skin itched and he could only see Mary, and the _cage_ he was in. He couldn’t even see what was behind Mary, it was dark, purposefully so. There were no windows, no noises coming from outside. 

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“Where. Is. He?” Sherlock asked. There was no point in telling John that he had no reason to be sorry or to play coy with Mary – or whichever her real name was.

Mary did not answer him, not right away. He saw her masking the flash of pain in her eyes as she squatted down, near the man she had killed and took a gun and a tablet from his jacket and extracted the knife from the man’s chest: quick, precise movements, she even cleaned the blade on the man’s shirt before tucking the knife back in the waistband of her trousers. 

She was waiting for him to talk, to deduce, to ask questions, to ask for John again.

“You said you would not shoot me,” Sherlock said.

“And I won’t,” Mary said.

She hated him. It was blindingly obvious – it must have consumed her to hide it so well and for so long. But why?

“So,” Mary said after a moment, “let’s play a game!”

“I am not playing games with you, Mary!” Sherlock said.

Mary laughed at his words. She was not mocking him, hers was a genuine laugh; as if he had said something hilarious.

“Oh, honey – it’s a bit too late for that.” She said.

True. She had played him, but he had allowed her to do so. He should have her stopped when he could when Mycroft had urged him to do so. Apparently, he _never_ learned.

 “But it’s a nice game, it might save John’s life!” She added.

 He rolled his eyes. “Must you be so obvious, Mary?”

“Well, it has worked so far, hasn’t it?” Mary said.

It had. She was right. The pieces of the puzzle were finally slotting into place and after so long feeling like the truth was right outside his grasp, he was seeing it – and part of him was relieved. It was different when he knew his opponents, it was different when he could see and observe.

And it was all so obvious. He really had been slow.

“I am done playing, in that case,” Sherlock said.

“You’ve been saying that a lot, and yet here you are,” Mary replied, “not a shred of a plan, no protection detail – sorry, by the way, they’re toast – no weapons. You just had to save John, didn’t you?”

“Everybody knows he is my pressure point, Mary – that’s hardly shocking!” Sherlock replied. She was right. He did not have a plan, not really. Finding John and trying not to lose himself again had been the only things in his mind. He should have ignored his feelings, put aside his anger and devise a plan, a strategy with Mycroft. 

He hadn’t. 

“Well, fuck, no! Why do you think I married him in the first place?” Mary said, interrupting his thoughts.

True. All true. She wasn’t even gloating, she was just stating the facts in a steady voice, like that night in Magnussen’s bedroom. She could have shot him in the head, but she had not. She had shot him in the heart. How _very_ telling. 

“I see,” Sherlock said.

Mary tilted her head on her side and said, “Yes, you are starting to. I can see it in your eyes. You love games -”

He let out an annoyed sigh at her words, he could not help it. Yes, he loved games – but there had to be a point to them, what he had seen and experienced since Moriarty’s video message had been broadcasted – and he was still curious about how they had managed to do that – had been just a  _distraction_ , with a side of personal hatred thrown in it.

“Do what you must, then, you have been waiting for this moment for a very long time, after all.”  He said, eventually.

Mary shook her head, “Tempting, but no thank you. Not yet. What did you say during my wedding day? ‘You. It’s always you, John Watson.’”

He remembered. How could he forget? John kept him right: human, alive, weak, frail, happy – desperate. Afraid.

He could not let fear overrule his mind again, however.

“Sherlock.” It was John’s voice.  He was close – he was, _had_ to be real. Part of him feared that it was a trick, that it was one more way of _torturing_ him, with the illusion that John was fine, unharmed – only to find out, when Mary was ready, that the truth was different. It was irrational, but all his actions for the past few hours had ignored reason favoring sentiment, hence his current situation. 

“Remember what we talked about.” John continued. There was urgency in his voice. There was fear, shame – _love_. 

They had talked about a lot of things, but he knew what the man was referring to: John had asked him, urged him to play a different game, to change tactics. John had said he could not live without him. And he had believed him. He had.

But John Watson couldn’t honestly believe that, given a choice, he would not – (fall, bleed, kill) do everything in his power to see that no harm came to him.

Mary smiled. She used to smile like that, patiently and indulgently while at Baker Street, watching them bicker about cases.

“Isn’t he adorable?” She asked, “Don’t worry, John. You’ll get to play too.”

“No. I am not. We are not!” John replied and Sherlock needed to see him, he needed to do more than hearing his voice – he could deduce things: his voice was hoarse, therefore he must have screamed (why? He did not sound like he was in any sort of physical pain), that he too, had still drugs in his system, that he was angry, but he _needed_ visual confirmation.

“So, I guess they’ll both die, after all,” Mary said, the tone of her voice casual as if she was talking about the weather.

The text. The trap she had laid out for John, she was not done with that: the baby was her best asset at the moment, she was John’s daughter. The child was, after all, the reason why he had not allowed Mycroft to take preemptive actions against Mary for so long; that – and the fact that he had genuinely believed that John was in love with Mary up until they had talked in that cab, the day after they first kissed. 

“Why didn’t you just kill me the night you shot me, then?” Sherlock asked.

Mary shrugged, “You’ll need to earn your precious answers from now on. All of them. But I suspect you already figured this one out.”

Sherlock nodded. He had. At least part of it – it was really obvious, now: how Mycroft, despite his resources, still had not found satisfying and corroborating evidence about Mary’s past, but Charles Augustus Magnussen had had them, since the beginning, apparently.

What he was not sure about was whether Mary herself had fed information to Magnussen or not.  Had she worked for him or had she used both of them?

“It doesn’t matter –“ He said after a moment, “do you really think that we won’t be found?” 

If he knew his brother, he was probably putting together all the pieces, trying to find Mary through all the channels at his disposal. Mary had been extremely good at hiding her past and her tracks, but everyone left traces – it was a fact.

It was Locard’s exchange theory – and it did not only apply on crime scenes: there was no such thing as a perfect crime, there must be evidence – and Mycroft, as much as he loathed him, was cleverer than him.

He was trying to buy time, he realised. Part of him, a childish one, perhaps, still held out hope that Mycroft would find them and save the day like he had done in Serbia.

She checked her watch. It was not the watch she usually wore, it was a man’s watch, it looked old, but was in good condition. It clearly held sentimental value to her.

“I know we don’t have much time and you talking and asking things won’t change a thing –“ Mary said. She stepped closer to the glass and her voice dropped, she spoke in Serbian and said, “I’ve been torturing you for years, Sherlock, in any way I could. Big brother couldn't help you then, and cannot help you now!”

“Sherlock,” John said, “what did she say?”

Mary had purposefully talked in a foreign language – it was not her first language, however, or even her third.

 

_“It happened in Serbia, shortly before I came back –“_

Devious.  And still playing games.  Mary was not smiling any longer and John was still calling his name.

“I’m here –“ Sherlock said.

The pictures sent to the hospital all told a story, didn’t they? The picture of John and him kissing, a frame, taken shortly after he had told John about Serbia. And she had known. She had known what John’s presence at the hospital would do to his frame of mind, how it would make things easier in some ways and incredibly difficult in others  – she must have known what it had meant to have him at Baker Street after finding Jason Miller’s body because there had been bugs and cameras in his flat, because he had been spied on ever since he had come back to London.

She was right – it was a bit late to refuse to play with her. She had been playing with him for a very long time.

“What did she just say?” John repeated.

“Nothing useful,” Sherlock said curtly.

Mary smirked. It had been a test. The latest in a long series. Had he passed it? Had he failed?

“Shall we begin?” Mary asked.

“I could kill myself right here, right now – spare myself the tedium of it all,” Sherlock said.

He did not want to die. He wanted to go home, he wanted to live his life with John: solving cases, fighting about domestic chores and things that had seemed so dull, once, but that were actually not: nothing in his life with John had ever been dull.

But – he could not let Mary win, she had already taken so much from him and from John. He was not bluffing. And Mary knew that she could see it on her face.

Mary seemed to consider his words, she huffed a breath and said, “I would not complain, but Sherlock – would you truly do that to John? Again? And would you condemn John’s daughter too? Because I swear to God, she will die if you play games.”

 “Where is she?” Sherlock said, right when John did.

That child _was_ John’s daughter. He had no doubts about that; Mary had needed to have the ultimate bargaining chip to play; it wouldn’t have made any sense risking things to be any different.

But – even if the baby was not John’s, she was still an infant, she was innocent. He did not much care for babies – but far too many innocent people had died for that – _game_ (because of him) _._

Mary smiled, but some of the happiness she had showed was already fraying around the edges. She was not bluffing, she was absolutely sincere.

He could kill himself and it would not save John. Not that time, and it would not save his daughter.

“You would kill your own daughter.” Sherlock said.

“I wouldn’t – it would be _your_ fault. I am _done_ talking. Shall we play?” Mary said.

“Where is my daughter?” John asked.

He had not said a word while he had said he would kill himself, he had heard his sharp intake of breath, however and now sounded shaken – but, oh – the way he had said those words, the sentiment he could hear in them told Sherlock that the child was now more than a theoretical concept for John, she was more than a picture on a mobile phone.

They – Mary had let him see her. That child was John’s flesh and blood and he had made a vow to be there for her – regardless of whom her mother was.

“Patience –“ Mary said.

“I need to see John,” Sherlock said, “I’m not doing anything until I see him.”

He expected Mary to refuse his request, but she didn’t.

“Fair enough.” She said.

There would be a price to pay for that, he was sure, but at the moment he could not bring himself to care – which was exactly what had caused his current predicament.

Mary took a small rectangular remote from the pocket of her jacket and pressed a button.

He had of course noticed the pigmentation in the Plexiglas wall on his right side, thinking it could be altered remotely.  It did not matter, however, because John was there. He had not measured time since they had been separated, it would have been – a lot of not good. But it felt like it had been ages since he had last seen him, since they had gone back to Baker Street.

He looked pale – he noticed right away that his watch was missing, he had a puncture mark on his neck, his eyes were puffy and red rimmed, there were bruises on his wrists but he was otherwise unharmed.

The space John was occupying was similar to his own, but there were some differences: there were four different ventilation grids on the brick wall behind him, there was a bucket, and there was only one small, plastic box, without a lock, on a trolley 

John turned and he could see that he was studying him, trying to see if he was all right. The relief, shame and regret he could clearly see in John’s face and body were deafening, for a moment. It was not John’s fault, or even his own, for that matter.

They had to find a way to get out of there – if Mary wanted to play he would, it would buy time. Even a second could make the difference, at that point.

John’s left hand was clenched into a tight fist – he was ready to go into battle as well.

They had not said a word, not really. There were still a lot of unspoken things between them, but _that_ – the battlefield, the game – it was something they were both good at. The consulting detective and his blogger; the madman and the soldier, they rarely needed to really speak on such occasions.

“As you can see he is fine. What happens next is up to you.” Mary said

“I don’t understand –“ Sherlock said, “you will kill us anyway – or you will get caught, what’s the point of this?”

“Jim Moriarty said he wanted to burn the heart out of you. But he got it all wrong, didn’t he, Sherlock?” Mary said.

  Jim Moriarty had been obsessed with him – he had been a shadow of what he himself might have been, but there had always been a certain elegance and respect in everything he had done. He would have not condoned what Herman Bennett had done to him, he would and had acted differently.

Jim Moriarty had threatened and almost succeeded in burning the heart out of him, but the man – had not had a heart, he had not understood how he ticked. Not really, not until the very end on the rooftop.

He smiled. He truly could not help it. Mary had clearly picked up where Moriarty had left off.

No. Not exactly. Moriarty had wanted to burn the heart out of him – Mary had done more: she had systematically broken it, piece by piece.

The American man he had talked to the phone was the mind, but Mary – she was the heart of the scheme.

 The _heart_.

William and Joan – stand-ins for John and him. Victor, his first love. Janine – a friend, a very public girlfriend. Men and women bearing a resemblance to him. Oh, yes. It was _very_ personal – it had to be.

 “Well, I am not him.” Mary said.

“No, you are not. And neither is the man I talked to. Is he your boss or is it the other way around?” Sherlock said.

Mary shook her head, “Not a James Bond villain…” she sing songed in a very decent impression of Mrs. Hudson, “but I can tell you that he doesn’t like crusaders, which you are. The only reason he didn’t waste you before is because you did his job for him when you were playing the big _hero_!”

“And you provided the distraction he needed, obviously.” Sherlock concluded for her. The tone of her voice had become scathing as she spoke. Oh, excellent: a crack in the façade.

Mary nodded, “Pretty much.”

“You must know that killing me won’t solve the problem.” Sherlock said. 

“Yes. But I don’t care about that. You must have heard it before: we are everywhere. And we truly are! She said.

She really did not care about that and Sherlock knew there would be no use in asking her what had changed. She wanted him to deduce everything.  She would not volunteer information unless it was part of her _game_.

Nevertheless, he had to ask, even if he knew it was an exercise in futility. “You must also be aware that killing me will not change the past,” Sherlock said.

Mary was good – she was an excellent liar, but everyone had weaknesses, including her, he saw how she forcibly schooled her features into a neutral mask.

Oh, she must have imagined that moment for a long time, hence the choreography:  the carefully chosen clothes, all the little games she had played, those bloody Plexiglas walls. But it was different when one was confronted with reality, after wishing something for so long. _She_ had taught him that, after all.

“Just out of curiosity: what did I take away from you?” He asked.  

“Now we can begin.” Mary said.

So it was true. He had taken something – no, _someone_ away from Mary.

 

 

 

* * *

 

John clearly remembered his first date with Mary. It had felt natural, she had been the first person, after that day outside Bart’s, that made him smile – and it had caught him by surprise when he had realised that those smiles had been heartfelt.

He remembered how it had not felt like a date, but a night out with a mate, he had felt no pressure. He had smiled. He had laughed.

He had kissed her goodnight and – she had smiled, without inviting him in for coffee. God knew he had not been ready for more.

She had fit into his life (wormed her way in, more like), in the wreckage of his existence post Sherlock effortlessly.

Fuck. He had been desperate and she had had a jolly easy time getting what she wanted.

And what she wanted, clearly, was to hurt Sherlock.

The good news was that Sherlock not only looked unharmed, but he looked _fine._ He looked and sounded more himself than he had for a very long time and it was not an act, it was not a front for Mary’s benefit. He had had good moments – since the hospital and he had seen them all, he had also witnessed how fleeting they could be, he had seen Sherlock trying with everything he was to grasp whom he really was, and he had seen him fail – he had sounded fine on the way back to Baker Street, but he realised, now, that it had been just a reprieve.

He was – glorious, now: his back straight, his eyes burning bright with intelligence and, above all, understanding. He was worried, only a fool would not be worried, but he was also very determined.

The bad news was that, according to Mary, or whichever the fuck her real name was, Sherlock did not have a plan. Which did not make sense because  Sherlock always had a contingency plan. Even if it was dumb, reckless and ended up breaking his heart – breaking both their hearts, actually.

She had not lied,  though. He could see it clearly in how Sherlock was still studying her and his – surroundings

Perhaps, Sherlock had already deduced everything – once the initial shock had worn off. He was a doctor, he was a soldier – and the video had fooled him. Sherlock had been fooled as well – but he had had doubts, hadn’t he? Or he would not have asked for Anderson and Molly to look at the video again. 

Mycroft was surely looking for them. Mycroft needed to know who was pulling the strings, therefore he would find them. Mycroft would want to save his little brother because he worried about him, constantly.

Mary had talked about a game. She had laughed when Sherlock had said he wouldn’t play. And she was right: they had played and played and played for _years_.

He had heard what Mary had said: he was Sherlock’s pressure point, but Mycroft had told him once that he was also – what made him strong. He needed to remember that, if there ever had been a moment where Sherlock needed to count on him it was right then.

He needed to be strong for his daughter – he needed to bring her home. That was all that mattered.

He had also heard what Mary had said about Moriarty and what Sherlock had inferred from her words. Whatever Mary had in mind, whatever her game was, she would try and use him to make Sherlock play.

“I want to play too.” John said.

“Did you change your mind?” Mary asked.

“Do I have a choice?” He countered.

“Of course. You have always had a choice, both of you. Sherlock always chose you, at every turn. You?” Mary smiled, and her smile was genuine, “You _never_ picked him.”

“He is a wise man.” Sherlock interjected, right when he said, “Is that the best you can do, Mary?”

“Is he, Sherlock? I mean, walking through the fire for someone is a nice big gesture, but lying your ass off to the woman who shot you in the chest to protect _him_ takes real devotion,” She took a step toward his part of the cell, “And he still has _no_ idea about all you did for him –“

 Sherlock looked absolutely nonplussed by her words. He wasn’t feigning boredom, he wasn’t projecting any air of superiority, he might have well said, “Yes, so _bloody_ what?”

He wasn’t even looking at him. Neither did Mary for a few moments, when she did, her smile became sugary sweet, and her voice was soft when she said, “Is that the best I can do? No. It truly isn’t.”

The tv screens flickered on and there she was: his daughter, still in her incubator, sleeping peacefully. He hazarded a glance at Sherlock and he too was looking at the baby. What was he seeing? He couldn’t say what was on his mind; he had no idea.

“Sometimes a deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can't see it even when it's staring you in the face.” Sherlock mumbled.

He had said those words before. The day after the bonfire, while watching the video of the tube carriages and Lord Moran getting into one of them.

“What?” John asked.

Was it about the baby? What was he seeing that he couldn’t?

“Sherlock –“ John said, “what is it?”

Sherlock looked at him, “Your daughter is beautiful.” He only said.

“She is, isn’t she? She’s cute as a button,” Mary said, “we don’t have much time, so let’s get started –“

She knew that Mycroft would find them, no – _no,_ it was more than that: she wanted Mycroft to find them. But why? What purpose would it serve?

“Finally.” Sherlock said.

And John was suddenly very afraid – because he knew that tone of voice: it held finality, steel, determination – he had spoken with the same tone of voice to Herman Bennett, right before everything went to hell. 

Mary smiled. She too knew Sherlock – she was the one who had first pointed out to him how not okay he was before they got married. 

And the craziest thing was – that Sherlock and Mary were looking at each other, perfect understanding passing between them, despite everything.

“You can go to her, John. Right now.” Mary said, “Sherlock will help you.”

“Will he?” John asked, he was keeping his voice even, his fists unclenched, even if he knew it was useless, she must know how much he wanted to hurt her. How much he wanted to see her dead, at the moment.

 She was the woman who used to make him laugh until his sides hurt, who had put him back together when he had started to think that, without Sherlock, there was no point in even bothering to do more than existing. 

 “Yes,” Mary said, “so, what is going to be, boys?”

“I’ll help,” Sherlock said.

“Color me shocked,” Mary replied, “John?”

He didn’t look at her, he was looking at Sherlock – he was trying to convey with his eyes that he could not leave him, he could not – allow him to play the bloody martyr again.

“It’s all fine –“ Sherlock said. And he had said the same exact thing when he had thought he would betray him. And it had been – so easy for him to think so. Too easy.

“No, it’s not –“ John said, “I’m not leaving you!”

 _Not again. Not as long as I live._ He thought and Sherlock was seeing it, in his eyes, on his face, in the way he was keeping still because if he moved, he would bang his fists against that Plexiglas wall and it would just give Mary other ammunition.

“Mary –“ Sherlock said, without looking at her, “could you give us a moment, _please_?”

Sherlock had never begged anyone for as long as he had known him. Sherlock had looked absolutely relaxed on Magnussen’s couch as the man showed the video from the Bonfire night (and part of him was now wondering why, in God’s name, Magnussen had texted Mary, of all people, how had those people known that he would go to Baker Street, when he himself had not known).

He was asking Mary to give them a moment, but he did not need a moment, he did not need a second – he could _not_ leave Sherlock, not even for his daughter because he knew Sherlock would have to pay a price for that, and he could not let that happen.

Mary had clearly expected those words, her face was utterly expressionless when she said, “Sure.” 

Mary took a few steps back, and it was so dark that he could not see her, and it did not make sense that she would give them a moment – that she would play nice. 

 Sherlock turned to look at him, “John – “

“I am not leaving you alone with her,” John said, “ever heard of divide and conquer? She is bluffing!”

Sherlock was aware of that. It was clear on his face, yet he said, “Are you willing to take the risk, John?”

He took a step getting close to the Plexiglas wall and John did the same. Could he choose between his daughter and Sherlock? There had been no hesitation in his mind, in his heart when he had got that text the previous night – and Sherlock was right, the bastard, but how could he let him alone with Mary?

“Don’t tell me you paid any attention to what Mary said –“ Sherlock sighed.

It was a convincing act, but an act, nevertheless. And he must have read his mind because yes,  he had paid attention to Mary's words.

“She wasn’t lying – probably for the first time since I met her.” John said.

“She wasn’t telling the truth either,” Sherlock replied. He smiled and asked, “A journal, really?”

_You chose me._

It was what Sherlock meant to say, it was clear in the man’s eyes and in his smile, and it hurt to smile back at Sherlock, it hurt to stay still, but he did and said, “You were dead – and when you came back you weren’t a nosy bugger.”

_I love you._

He didn’t say it aloud – not that time, even if he had for the past few weeks, since the hospital and Sherlock Holmes was a bloody genius, he was sure he would deduce it from his words, from how painful it was to smile, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“You will have to let me read it –“ Sherlock said. The tone of his voice was brisk, but his eyes – the way his lips were still curled up in a smile, told him what he really meant.

_I love you too._

Sherlock had never said those words aloud and he didn’t care – Sherlock Holmes loved him. He was promising him – reassuring him that they would see the end of that mess. He was promising him a future, and he wanted to believe him. 

He was also pleading him, with his eyes, to go, to be careful – and if they got out of there alive – _when_ they got out of there – he would sit Sherlock down in his chair, in their sitting room and he would find a way to get into that brilliant, thick, amazing, stupid brain that he wasn’t willing to ever lose him again. He would spend the rest of his life making him understand that he loved him just as much as Sherlock loved him.

“I still think it’s a rubbish idea,” John said.

“I know –“ Sherlock said.

He was still smiling – and he had no idea, none whatsoever, about what he had deduced, what he had seen – whether he had a plan or not. 

It felt like being on that bloody Tarmac again – and he was tired, so fucking tired of having to say good bye to Sherlock Holmes.

 He almost didn’t hear Mary when she stepped forward, but Sherlock did, he kept eye contact with him and his smile was genuine.

“You did not overhear our conversation –“ He said, still looking at him, still smiling, “Quite _merciful_ of you.”

He saw Mary blinking her eyes at Sherlock’s words. Sherlock had asked Mary what he had taken away from her and she had not answered, but – it was clear that there had to be a personal reason for what she had done, and Sherlock was not afraid of poking her to gauge her reaction.

Sherlock always chose his words carefully, and – God, he supposed he should be more worried because Mary had a gun, a knife and they were trapped, instead he was proud and felt adrenaline rushing in his veins.

“Hardly,” Mary said, “left pocket of your jacket, you still have the keys,”

Keys? What keys? What was she talking about?

“Ready to exact your pound of flesh at long last?” Sherlock said. He shrugged off his coat and folded it on the chair next to him; that was Sherlock playing the game –  he had seen him countless times – he recognized the fluidity of his movements and the look in his eyes. That was Sherlock ready to win – and it was a sight to behold, after so long.

Sherlock had told him, while he was in the hospital, that he didn’t know who he was any longer and those words had haunted him for weeks, but looking at him, now – John realised that Sherlock did not need code words with his brother – he did not need to be the East Wind – he just had to remember whom he was.

And if he thought he would let him get into the dragon’s lair alone, that time, he was sorely mistaken.

 

* * *

He had been in Mycroft Holmes’ bunker a couple of times before, both times because of Sherlock. The first time had been shortly after Sherlock had overdosed, a few months after he had started popping up on his crime scenes, causing havoc and being a brilliant bugger who solved crimes within minutes and reduced his co-workers to either tears or fits of rage.

Back then Mycroft Holmes had more hair and weighed about a stone more, he had been younger – well, they had all been – and things had looked so simple, back then. 

It had not been Mycroft’s idea to have him ask Sherlock to clean his act if he wanted to keep consulting on his crime scene, it had been his own doing and Sherlock had complied; he had disappeared for a month – and he still did not know whether he had been in rehab or he had quit cold turkey and almost killed himself trying to get clean: all he knew was that  he had been brought to the bunker shortly after Sherlock had reappeared, sober and even more of a dick than before, and Mycroft had – well, he supposed that in his own way he had meant to thank him;  he only remembered getting out from that bunker wanting to punch things, but he had also understood that being dicks ran in the Holmes’ family, there must have been something in their DNA and had let it slide.

The last time he had been in that room  had been when Sherlock had escaped from the hospital, after being shot.

And now he was – pissed. He truly was because no one, not Sherlock, not John, not Mycroft – had deigned to tell him that _Mary_ had shot Sherlock the previous summer. She had shot him in the chest and he had drunk coffee with her at the hospital, chatting about Sherlock and how he had nine lives like a cat, and how lucky they were he had pulled through, and had never suspected a thing.

Anger would have to wait, however – right with the feeling of being in some sort of parallel universe, one where a blonde, kind, funny nurse, someone he saw as a friend was actually an assassin who, most probably, was part of that fucked up vendetta against Sherlock.

There weren’t many people in the bunker: just Mycroft, Anthea, Drake, Molly, Anderson and Harris who had just got in after leaving the hospital against medical advice and him. He had no idea why Anderson was still there but, apparently, Mycroft trusted him far more than some of his men at the moment. Not that he blamed him, at that point.

He supposed it made sense, considering how far reaching the people who moved the strings were. Anderson was many things, not all of them good, but he _was_ loyal to Sherlock Holmes – and so was Molly – and about him, well... he would die for the bastard, no questions asked.

Mycroft Holmes needed allies especially now that Sherlock had disappeared.

Also, Phillip Anderson had never trusted Mary, apparently. He had had no idea. 

Sherlock’s last known location was John and Mary’s home. There had not been time to do pretty much anything  about it, however, because the house had gone up in flames as a black van sped out from the backyard: most of Sherlock’s protection detail had got caught in the blast and the number of casualties kept growing.

Molly was shaken, but she had smiled when he had got inside the room: a real smile, not one of those she used to give Sherlock, shy and self-conscious. He was pretty sure he had smiled as well – and for a moment he had wanted to bugger everything and everyone and just hold her, just to make sure she was okay – that they both were. Neither of them had moved and that impulse had soon faded, things were too chaotic at the moment. And that was an understatement.

Mycroft was debriefing them about the latest developments, mostly for Harris’ sake, the man looked like he had been put through a meat grinder, but he was even more pissed off than he was. He had seen people die, he felt responsible for what had happened to Sherlock – and Greg was sorely tempted to tell him to get in line or join the bloody club. 

They knew Mary was alive – the execution he had seen in that video was a fake, it had been masterfully done, as it had fooled even Sherlock at first –  looking at the fake crime scene had been a surreal experience, one he was sure he would not soon forget. It had looked like a bloody slaughterhouse – except that it had been all fake.

After that day, when Sherlock had faked his suicide, John Watson had given an official statement to Scotland Yard; he had read that. He had read what John had said about his last conversation with Sherlock – and even if he had felt like there had been bits missing, he still remembered how John had said that Sherlock had talked about a “magic trick”. That was what Mary Morstan had done – in a nutshell. A magic trick to make Sherlock and John think that she had been killed. 

They knew that a woman who looked like Mary, according to witnesses,  had paid in cash for a man’s funeral, a man Sherlock had killed while he had been away. The fact that Sherlock had had to kill people in order to get rid of Moriarty’s legacy had not exactly surprised him, but it had made so many things clearer: how Sherlock had become more careful, how he had finally learned to call for back up, how he had been more forthcoming - at least until the day he had followed Herman Bennett to save Alyce Bradford.

And some things – things he had had to let slide because Bennett had been in custody and he had had to sign reports he hadn’t written and turn part of the evidence to Mycroft – were making more sense, now. He had wondered about Alyce, after. She was the only victim who was not brought to Herman Bennet’s house.

All the other victims, as forensics and the trophies found in that house had confirmed, had been brought there, raped, tortured, starved and eventually killed. All of them, with the blaring exception of that teenager. He had not pushed the matter, even if it had rubbed him the wrong way; after all the culprit had been apprehended and yet, that thought had been there, he had poked at it, time and again, but in the end, it had been very simple, hadn’t it?

Fuck – it had been a _trap_ all along! And heads would roll, he would personally make sure of that, after, because such a fuck up could _not_ have been a coincidence.   

The fact that Sherlock had had to kill while he had been away  also made the scars he had seen on his body – and he had had the time to properly look at all of them: the older ones as much as the fresh ones when he had looked at the pictures taken at the hospital – made terrible sense.

So, Sherlock had killed Mary’s husband, apparently –  a Brian Cooper, a semi retired criminal  loosely associated with one of Moriarty’s men in Chicago. He had the feeling that there had to be more to the story, more to that man, whose criminal records were frankly risible, but he wasn’t exactly keen on finding out the details. Not at the moment. Or ever, if he had to be honest. 

They needed to discover Sherlock and John’s whereabouts – and they had nothing. CCTVs cameras had not given them anything so far: blackouts, identical cars, they had used all the tricks in the book and more. There weren’t leads, decoys or messages, not that time. They had Sherlock, after all. 

“She said her name was Emily in the video –“ He said when Mycroft paused talking, “wasn’t that the same name she used in Chicago?”

Mycroft nodded and Anthea said that they were examining the records, they had been since she had uttered that name, but so far they had not found one single building belonging to either an Emily Abel or Emily Cooper or any combination of the known aliases Mary had used.

And it was absolutely crazy that Mary, the woman he had known, had had _aliases_. It also cleared up the reason for the tension he had seen between John and Mary – why they had broken up during the summer: John must have known. Why had he come back to her?  

He was used to taking things in stride as far as Sherlock was concerned, he had long learned that it was the only way to keep himself sane – but that didn’t make any sense! Mary had fooled them all, but they were _ordinary_ , as Sherlock would say. 

She had fooled _both_ Sherlock and Mycroft and that – just did not make sense to him. And he must have voiced his thoughts aloud – because he honestly did not understand how that could have happened. Mycroft did not reply to him, though.

“She shot him – if she is part of this, why not finish the job when she could and be done with it?” He asked, “Why all of this?”

Molly cleared her throat and Greg looked at her, she was near Anderson, in front of the computer screens where there was still the videos of Mary’s ‘execution’  and the one he had sent her of the room in standby.

“Do you remember Sherlock’s speech at John’s wedding, Greg?” She asked.

 _Right_. It made sense that Molly would say those words, that she would go there: she had been in love with Sherlock for so long, she had helped him faking his suicide, she had said she had moved on – but that had not truly happened only until recently, after she had broken up with Tom.

And of course, he remembered that speech – and the waltz Sherlock had composed for John and Mary – and he knew how painful unrequited love could be, how confusing, how weakening, especially for – someone like the consulting detective: emotionally closed off, a dick and – a genius all rolled into one. 

“You have been in Herman Bennett’s basement, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft added.

He nodded. They were right: shooting Sherlock would have been definitely less painful – than what had been done to him, he realised: play with his heart, hurting him physically and then watch him play.

“Whoever took James Moriarty’s place must have used Mary to distract Sherlock.” Mycroft continued – and Greg wasn’t fooled, he had known Mycroft Holmes’ long enough to know that the elder Holmes cared about his little brother, and would do everything in his power to protect him, even and especially from himself.

   He had been right, then: there was one hell of a personal grudge behind everything that had happened. Not that it made him feel any better. He said as much and Mycroft said, “In part, yes.”

“If that’s true, killing him, laying low or just avoid him would have made more sense, don’t you think?” Greg asked.

Granted, he did not run a country, he was not a genius, but that was just common sense, wasn’t it?

“We would have noticed. We would have paid attention, Detective Inspector, rest assured.” Mycroft said. Greg believed him.

Sherlock’s brother, one of the most powerful – if not the most powerful man he had ever met, resumed talking, his voice was calm, a monotone which did not fool Greg for a moment. He remembered only too well Mycroft at the hospital, after they had rescued Sherlock. He remembered each and every conversation, order, suggestion Mycroft had given him for the past few weeks to be fooled.

Mycroft Holmes told them that Sherlock had accomplished something unprecedented when he had, almost singlehandedly, taken down Moriarty’s web.

 He hazarded a look at Drake, who had been listening, without intervening, ever since the beginning, and he remembered the look on his face when he had mentioned Mexico – and what he had inferred from the man’s words. Sherlock had done something unprecedented, true – but it had come with a price, apparently.

“After Serbia, especially, he would have been hyperaware of everything.” Mycroft said. He did not add anything else, and Lestrade did not expect him to. He suspected he had not even truly meant to mention Serbia.

Greg had no idea about what had happened there, but the way the man had said those words and the very fact that he could hear actual _emotion_ in the man’s voice told him everything he needed to know.

Sherlock had – suffered and killed and had come back home a changed man, that was what Mycroft meant, thus confirming all his hypothesis and inferences.

Sherlock would have been hyper-vigilant under normal circumstances, if he had come back to his old life, to the things he knew.  But things had changed – and Sherlock had not seen, both willingly and because of outside interferences.

Anthea, who had been at Mycroft’s side, looked at her phone and then immediately after whispered something in the man’s ear. Mycroft left immediately after, without saying a word,  followed by everyone but Molly and Anderson.

Anderson returned to watch the videos. He was searching for clues, for details that might help them – and he had been right, after all, about Sherlock not being dead, so why not? – he didn’t move, it was Molly who did.

They should have told him – they should have told him about Mary. He might have done more than wanting to take bloody videos with his mobile phone at the hospital. He would have arrested Mary, he would have – helped his friends. He would have done justice.

 He should have seen that Sherlock was not the same person he had met on a crime scene almost a decade before, he wasn’t even the same man that he had had to arrest at Baker Street, mere hours before he faked his suicide. Sherlock had not wanted him to see and know – but that was not an excuse. He had made a vow to observe him, to notice things when he had come back – and he had failed, miserably.

He knew it was useless to think about the things he had not done or seen, just like he knew that Molly was reading right through him, at least judging by the look on her face. It was the same look she had on her face while they had coffee and he said something stupid, something she strongly disagreed with. She took his hand in hers, and friends did those things all the time, didn’t they?

Except that – the look in Molly’s eyes was unlike he had ever seen directed at him. She was pale, tired – bloody hell, they all were, but she smiled before saying, “We will find them – alive.”

“And then what?” He asked. It was a genuine question: he had no idea about how to help John, Sherlock and the baby, after. He had no idea whether they would want or need their help.  

He saw the hesitation in Molly, and she had never hesitated with him – she seemed almost shy when she said, “We will be there for them – together.”

He couldn’t smile, not really – he was too wired, too worried to – but he held her hand tighter for a moment.

Together. He could do that.

* * *

 

Motives never changed, that was one of the first things Sherlock had learned when he had started solving crimes: hate, money, envy, love, revenge – all the crimes he had solved all had one or more of those motives in common. It was rather dull, truth be told – he had never been particularly interested in the psychology of motives,  it could help piecing things together, but it had never been what interested him. 

He had appreciated, at first, Moriarty – because he had been different: there had been elegance, genius even in the architecture of his crimes, he had recognized the stroke of an artist in what he did. 

It had been a chess game, in its early stage, a funny mental exercise: see how he had used people’s petty motivations to relive boredom and challenged him to solve the puzzles. That had been, of course, before things became personal – before he realised that as much as he did not care about the people Moriarty had used to play, he was not – and would never be willing to see innocent people die just not to be bored.

 Mary was not interested in clever games, hence the lack of finesse and intellectual challenge in the messages he had been sent. She was not stupid, however, she was clever and extremely motivated.

 “How dramatic,” Mary said, replying to his question, “I prefer to call it a fair trade. Pick one –“ She indicated the boxes on the trolley with a look, “and I’ll open John’s door.”

“What –“ John trailed.

He had hoped Mary would wait for that part, he had known that she would want to play with him –  but no, she wanted John to watch, she wanted to hurt them both, for some reason. He did not want to gamble with John’s life, not if he could help it: John getting out of that cage could be a good thing or a disaster – but he doubted they would really have a choice in the matter. 

On the other hand, Mary was an assassin; she had a gun and a knife, but she had also just given birth, she was in pain and as much as she was used to physical pain (trained to endure torture, trained to ignore pain)  it was irrefutable that it was there – she had not lied about that. The pregnancy and the baby were possibly the only things she had never lied about.

She had also dropped her pretenses, she was living a long held fantasy or wish fulfillment. Gambling with John’s life was dangerous, but it could buy them time. Every second could make the difference, at that point.

“On second thought –“ John said, “I am not going anywhere,”

“Yes, you are.” Mary said.

“Why would you want to let me go?” John asked, “How do I know you won’t kill me the second I get out of here?”

He did have a point. That was why he was loathe for John to take that gamble.

“You don’t,” Mary said, “but if you are doing this to spare Sherlock some pain – well,” She trailed.

Sherlock saw her fingers flying on the tablet. He clearly heard the ventilation grid shutting off.

Oxygen deprivation was not an experience he was keen on repeating. It was not like being held underwater, but the oxygen levels in that space had been already low to begin with, something he had not paid a lot of attention to.

“You can only kill a person once –“ Mary reminded them, “however, if you’re very good at it, you can make it last as long as you want.”

“Sherlock –“ John said.

He could feel the weight of the keys in his pockets. He looked at Mary and asked, “Is all of this living up to your expectations?”

Mary didn’t smile and some of the happiness he had seen in her eyes and demeanor had faded. “You should save the oxygen, Sherlock –“ She replied, after a moment.

He took it as a no. _Interesting_ – and dangerous. Very dangerous.  

“Turn that thing on –“ John said.

Sherlock had avoided looking at him; they were both scientists, they both knew the effect of oxygen deprivation on human body – and John looked  almost defeated when he looked at him.

“I’m sorry –“ He said.

Oxygen deprivation, whatever was inside those boxes – or whatever would happen to John when he got out of his cage. John definitely was not the one who ought to apologise.

Sherlock shook his head; he had let his heart overrule his brain, he had been unforgivably reckless and he had not seen what was right under his nose.

“I should have told you.” He said eventually.

He had no idea what he was referring to: his plan to beat Moriarty at his own game? How he would fake his death? How much he loved him?

John smiled – he saw anger fighting to bubble up the surface, he saw how dangerously close to break John was. What was worse was that Mary must be seeing it too.

 _Don’t fall for her games._ He wanted to tell him, settling on trying to convey that message with his eyes.

He had sent John back to Mary, asked him to do so in order to buy time and it had been a hard decision to make – that was different,  however,  because he could not tell what Mary had in mind, not completely. He could not – protect John. He could not even protect himself.

“Go to the trolley, John, open the box.” Mary said.

John looked at him, seeking confirmation – and Sherlock wanted to tell him not to trust him, because he had been a blind idiot, who had ran headfirst into a trap, without knowing who his opponent truly was,  without flimsy back up or even a rudimentary plan.

He nodded. Oxygen deprivation was – as tiresome and fastidious as he remembered.

“You too, Sherlock.” Mary said.

She liked that. She liked to have power over them. It might have started as revenge, but it had become more for her. He wondered whether she realised that and what the American man thought of that particular part of the scheme.

He saw the earpiece inside John’s box – the item implied that she truly meant for  John to get out of that room (a basement, or a cellar, he wasn’t sure which – he could not even determine its exact size, because he could not see a thing behind Mary.). Or, perhaps, it was another trap.

He could deduce thousands of things about Mary – and that was not an exaggeration, but he had no clue about what was real and what was not with her; she must have practiced a lot before first meeting each other.

“Put it on.” Mary continued. She was aware that he was looking at her, she was aware that he could not tell whether she was lying, cheating or whether she was being truthful.

She was armed, but she was not using either the gun or the knife to threaten them. She was in pain, but she was still standing, even if it was clear that it was starting to take its toll on her.

 Was John looking at her? Was he truly looking or were his feelings making him blind? Not that he was any better – she had shot him in the chest, she had left him to bleed out in Magnussen’s bedroom and he _still_ had not seen the whole truth.

John complied – his movements were jerky and the fury on his face was dangerous. John Watson was a doctor, he had been to war – he had been his buffer with people countless times, but he was also prone to bursts of anger, he was a passionate man and Sherlock would do anything to make him understand how not good it was to wear his heart and betrayal on his sleeve. Not at the moment.

Sherlock took the few steps that separated him from the trolley. His heart rate had increased and he knew it wouldn’t be long before other signs of hypoxia appeared.

He took the keys from his pocket: six small keys for six cases: the cases were not unlike those sent to him for the past few days. They were custom made – which, was useless information, at that point.

He opened the first box and arched an eyebrow when he saw the knife inside. It was identical to the one Mary had used to kill the Russian man – and, he supposed, one weapon was as good as any for what she had in mind, if he had deduced it correctly.

“Turn the oxygen on –“ John said.

She did – and it was more than before, he could feel it – and yet, considering how hard and fast he could feel his heart beating, if he used that knife on himself he risked losing too much blood.

“You know anatomy,” Mary said, and he hated how well she could read him, how good she had been at using that knowledge against him – and John. “I trust you won’t bleed to death. That would be a shame. C’mon, off you go…”

“Whatever he did –“ John said, “you won’t change what happened with this.”

“You, of all people, giving _me_ a talk about forgiveness and moving on?” Mary said. She was tilting her head on a side, and he frankly loathed the way she was addressing him – as if she was better than him, as if whatever he had done (he suspected – and he frankly didn’t _care_ at the moment) to her was in any way comparable to what he had done to John when he had faked his suicide.

“John – it’s all right.” He said, he turned toward Mary and added, “Shall I?”

He did not hesitate when she nodded her head. He had had a dream, shortly before waking up – what had been amazing of it had been the total lack of physical pain, the quiet in his mind – the reality was different: oh, his mind palace was blessedly quiet, after far too much noise, schisms, confusion, but his body was another matter. There had not been a day, for the past few years where he had not been in pain, to the point that he did not truly remember what it was like not to feel stitches pulling, ribs being tender, cuts risking infections. 

Physical pain, however, was something he was good at ignoring. Physical pain was impairing, but it was also familiar. He did not hesitate, he had felt blades piercing his own skin before and Mary was right: he knew human anatomy, he knew how not to cause damage.

His hand was perfectly steady, his eyes bore into Mary’s, and there was something greedy in her eyes – she was enjoying that moment.

He did not make a sound as the blade pierced his skin.

 

* * *

 

 

He felt like he had spent ages abroad and on an airplane. He was on the same tarmac from which he had departed. The last sleep he had got had been in that motel room, in Virginia, while Irene Adler kept working, he had not even kipped on the way back to London.

William saw the dark haired woman waiting for him, she was Mycroft’s assistant, he had seen her before leaving. There was a black car waiting for him – whatever Mycroft Holmes had in mind, whatever his plans for him were, he was about to find out.

“Welcome back, Mr. Moore.” She said.

He had not expected Mycroft Holmes’ assistant – to be completely honest he had not known what to expect, exactly. They got inside the car and the woman said, “Mr. Holmes needs to talk to you – and to your fiancé.”

Not a chance in hell. He thought. Joan had already paid her dues. She had scars on her body, her hands were fucked, she would not be interrogated by Mycroft Holmes. She would not be dragged into that mess. Not again.

The woman was looking at him, she must be good at her job because she said, “We just need to ask her a few questions. It won’t take long and she has already agreed.”  

Of course, Joan would agree. She did not know what she was dealing with. She felt she had a debt of gratitude toward Sherlock – even if she had his name carved all over her body. She had agreed because she was a good person and she wanted to help – she wanted justice for what had been done to her. She wanted to understand. She really had no idea about the game and what it meant to be part of it: justice and understanding why fucked up things happened was _not_ contemplated.

 The woman waited until the car started before she said, “I need you to listen to this.”

She clicked a button on her ever present mobile phone and an audio file played. He did not care about the words the man said, he did not care about the arrogance he could clearly hear in his voice. They did not matter. The accent, however, the timbre of that voice – he had already heard it. He would recognise it everywhere.

Fuck. He knew him. He was again in an interrogation room, one where he wasn’t even supposed to be, while a blonde man threatened Joan. Not by name – not directly, it had been almost a textbook threat, one of the oldest tricks in the world – except that it had worked that time because, unlike in the past, because he truly had had someone to lose.

“You know him.” The woman said. It was not a question. She was studying him, like he had been trained to do. She was not just a P.A.

“Yeah,” He replied, “his name is Gavril Sidorov – I don’t know much about him, I only met him once.”

“It made an impression,  evidently. ” The woman said.

“He threatened my girlfriend – just, you know, the usual stuff.” He said.

He was not ashamed, he had no troubles admitting that the man’s words had scared him into reconsidering his life and his priorities. It had been the straw that had broken the camel’s back, a culmination of events and he had done the right thing. 

It had been a wakeup call. He had retired after that day because if one could not keep it during a routine interrogation, if one was scared by threats, if one was not ready to take any risk, if one realised they would betray their own country for the person they loved, perhaps retiring was the best option. It had been his only option, really. Despite everything, Queen and Country had still meant something to him. It still did.

“Is he involved?” William asked.

Of course, he was – or the woman would not have played that audio file for him.

“Sorry, stupid question,” He added with a sigh, “I have no idea about what happened to him, I don’t even know why he was being held – I retired shortly after.”

He had put on the papers for his retirement the day after, took a leave of absence until then and had never looked back. Until Joan had been kidnapped in their flat.

The woman nodded, checking on her phone (God, he needed one of those – that woman and Irene Adler could possibly conquer the world using two mobile phones.)

“There are no records about him.” She said after a moment.

William leant forward on his seat and said, “That is not possible – I saw him with my own eyes. I was there while he was questioned!”

“What was he questioned for?” She asked.

“Not a clue. They were operating on a need to know basis, I was just there because initially he talked in Albanian and I was in the room nearby.” He said. It was the truth.

“Well, he is _not_ in the system. He is not in _any_ system,” The woman said. Her face was unreadable, but he knew what that meant: either there was a mole within secret services or someone had hacked their servers. Maybe it had happened when James Moriarty’s face had been plastered everywhere in the country and his old friends had been far too busy to tell him, at first, what the fuck was going on.

He appreciated that the woman did not doubt him, however. He was absolutely sure – that voice had haunted his dreams for years before Joan had been taken.

“Why do you need to talk to Joan?” He asked after a moment. She had agreed to help, but he needed to know why, exactly.

“We need to know why they chose you – you met Gavril Sidrov, we need to know whether your fiancé has.”

He had spent days wondering why they had kidnapped Joan, why they had chosen them. He had never met Mycroft or Sherlock Holmes before Joan had been taken. He had checked his notes, his passport, he had traced back each and every step he had taken, every mission he had been part of for the five years before he retired and he was positive he had never met none of the people he knew were involved in what had happened to Sherlock and Joan.

No one, except for the Russian man who had threatened to let him watch while he skinned his girlfriend alive. He had not considered him a serious threat because he had only asked him his name and routine questions before the man finally started to speak in Russian and threatened to skin his pretty girlfriend alive.

How had he known? Why hadn’t he ever stopped and considered his words carefully at the time?

“We have been over this a million of times.” He said.

One more would not hurt, the SIS in him, said. He was thinking of what he had learned about Mary Morstan, about dates and logistics and yes, perhaps speaking with Joan would not be a bad idea, provided that she would be still safe. 

“We did not know the extent of Mary Morstan’s involvement then, we know, now. That changes things.” The woman said.

Her voice was all brisk professionalism, but underneath it all, William saw that somehow that was personal for her as well.

“Why the fuck did no one deal with her before?” He asked.

The woman – was not just an assistant, she was – a sister in arms. She was involved.

She had smiled until that moment, a Mona Lisa, bland smile, the sort of smile he had smiled a thousand times while on assignment. It faded.

“I don’t know, Mr. Moore.” The woman said.

He was sure she was usually a better liar than that, but he let it slide.

 He knew the answer, deep down. He had seen Sherlock Holmes and John Watson together, after all.

* * *

 

 

 Part of her, a big part of her to be honest, wanted to watch Sherlock’s face as she told him everything, every detail – even those he hadn’t already deduced. If they had more time she would tell him; she would have loved to use all the boxes, all the ideas she had – but she had been informed about the people in Chicago, so she knew that Mycroft Holmes and the few people he could trust would find her soon, sooner than she had estimated.

She had told Gavril that using a former SIS was a hazard, but Mr. Neal had approved the idea and she had just kept playing her part. She had not truly cared, to be honest: as long as she got what she was promise the other things didn’t truly matter.  

Mr. Neal had told her that he could have her on a plane in less than a hour during their last phone call, shortly after Sherlock had been brought there, in the house that was supposed to be her new beginning with Alex; she had appreciated the offer,  but that was  not what she wanted or needed from him.

Mr. Neal had known, of course, and it had been him who had reminded her that he would keep his promise to her. The last one, the one that mattered the most.

  Sherlock was  trying to deduce what her endgame was – and he  still was not getting it. He had got her motive, he was piecing together how deeply she had been involved in what had happened since January, but he still had no idea about what she truly wanted.

He had talked about mercy – and both John and him had babbled about the events of the present and how they could not change the past.

Oh, she knew – she had known that for a very long time, she was _not_ stupid.

It was not about the past or the present. It was about the future.

John was looking at her; he was about ready to burst – he was ready to let all the anger he had kept inside for _years_ , to come out – to be impossible to ignore any longer.  

 Perhaps she could lend a hand with that. She had told Sherlock that he would have to deduce everything and earn his answers.

Well, rules were made to be broken – like men.

 

 

Sherlock was bleeding. He was wearing a black shirt, nevertheless he could see the patch of dampness (blood) spreading on his side. It was barely more than a flesh wound, but Christ, he was so tired, so fucking tired of seeing Sherlock bleeding – for him or for anybody.

Sherlock had not hesitated. He never did when it mattered to him: whether it was flinging himself from a rooftop, walking through the fire for him or shooting Magnussen.

To be someone who had fucked with their lives for the past few years, Mary looked decidedly detached from what was going on. She was the woman he had married, the woman he had slept with, worked with, lived with – and he had no idea about what she was thinking, what she had in mind.

She did not seem to care about wasting time, she did not seem to mind about the eventuality of being caught, if anything she looked calm, as if she had all the time in the world.

“Open the door.” Sherlock said.

He had no idea how long it had truly been since Sherlock had picked up the blade. It had seemed to go on for hours, like in one of his dreams – and he was taking deep breaths because he had to think about his daughter – and Sherlock. God knew what Mary had in mind, but he could not take risks.

He saw the way Sherlock was looking at Mary; he was studying her and he recognized the look on his face: predatory, cold, calculating. He had looked at Herman Bennett like that the day he had seen him in prison. At the time, he had wondered whether it was how he had looked at the people he had hunted down while being away. Now he knew that it was. 

 Mary did too…and she didn’t care.

“John –“ Mary said, “I am opening the door – don’t be an idiot. I am not a junkie you can beat up in a crack house.”

He nodded, but she took the gun from the waistband of her trousers and pointed it at him all the same. That blasted earpiece was stuck in his ear, he was wondering whether he would hear Sherlock opening the other boxes – and he was sure, for a moment, that he was going to throw up.

He hazarded a look at the screen: his daughter was still soundly asleep, and he had no idea whether she was even in the place they were in (was it a basement? Were they in a house?), he had no guarantees – and no real choice, Mary wasn’t truly giving them one. It was her game.

“Stop touching that thing –“ Mary said.

“What do I need it for?” He asked – and he heard Sherlock’s almost imperceptible sigh. It was the sound he made when someone said really stupid things; he didn't look at him,  even if he was aware that it might possibly be the last chance he had.

A step,  and  another... and it was dark in the room,  except for the two Plexiglas cells and the spot where Mary was,  he still couldn't see a damn thing.

He was outside,  and each step he was taking took him a considerable effort because  all he wanted was to take Mary down.  Sherlock was  looking at him,  he could feel the weight of the man's stare on him.

 He must know how much he was trying  not to  follow his instinct. Had he already calculated the odds of trying to take Mary down? Was it why he had not said anything?

"These little things are very useful, " Mary said. 

 _Don't  listen to her._ He thought _._ Mary was good with words.  She had always been.

He could not help thinking for a moment about the night Sherlock had come back – how Mary had sided with Sherlock, how she had sounded sincere and _adorable_ when she had said that she liked him. He had believed her, of course, and he had been confused, at the time, because she had seemed to like Sherlock far more than he did that night.

God, it must have been like Christmas for her – they had been so open and easy to manipulate. 

 He moved another step – carefully keeping his distance from Mary. He could see the bottom two steps of a staircase, now.

“You want to give pointers to someone who needs to improvise? These little things come in handy!” She said.

She was smiling. And God, he had seen that smile before –  it was her “I’m so clever!” smile, and he had loved it – it had reminded him of Sherlock, he could admit it freely now. Except – that not even at his most callous Sherlock’s smirks had been as cold, as _malicious_. She had hid that part of  her, and he had never asked Sherlock whether she had smiled before shooting him – come to think of it, he had never asked a bloody thing about that night. Sherlock had asked him to trust him and he had, no questions asked.

“Pointers?” He heard himself say.

He did not want to speak. He did not want to hear her voice, he did not want to know what she clearly wanted to say – he wanted to free Sherlock and find his daughter.

He wanted to undo his mistakes, go back in time and not notice when the cute blonde nurse started to smile at him, ignore her when she started to chat him up, telling her that no, he would not go out on a date with her because he was in love with someone else. 

 

_That was not part of the plan, by the way._

 

Oh. Fuck. No, he squelched that thought, he had to. That – that could _not_ be!

 “John –“ Sherlock said, behind him.

 He could hear the physical pain in his voice and fuck, he hated how well he knew that tone of voice, now. He hated that even now, he was failing him and Sherlock was trying to protect him.

He hated that deep down he knew what she was talking about, but it was like being stuck in a nightmare, he could not control his words, he could not control his body, he could not stop his thoughts. 

“Yes, John, pointers to someone obsessed with Moriarty who truly wanted to fuck Sherlock in his honour.” Mary said, “And Sherlock didn’t do a thing to stop him. Not one fucking thing.”

He could not move for a moment. He wasn’t even sure he could breathe, he felt dizzy.

Eight hours – almost one hundred stitches, silence, hollow eyes, nightmares – Sherlock’s and his – Moriarty’s name carved on Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock flinching away from him – at the weirdest moments, passion and lust like poison, so utterly human and desperate in Bennett’s bedroom, while Sherlock hurt his hand. Sherlock’s voice telling him what happened – in the darkness of their bedroom. Both of them dancing around words as if not saying the words made what happened less real.

And she had known – she had given fucking pointers to that bastard and, at the same time, had sent him texts, and had come to the hospital, with an overnight bag and tears ready on the drop of a hat, pretending she was concerned, still pretending she gave a fuck about him, pretending she was noble and resigned to the fact that he loved Sherlock more than anything in the world.

He could taste bile in his throat, but he moved another step, and it was surreal – he was watching himself move, he was watching Mary pointing the gun at him, her smile faded, and she could say more. Oh, yes. She could – because she had given pointers to the animal who had tortured Sherlock – had she been part of the watch along party as well?

He could not turn and look at Sherlock – he knew, however, that he would not show whether Mary’s words were having any effect on him.

“Poor Herman didn’t know what to do –”

“But you did,” Sherlock said. His voice was firm, it was laced with pain, yes, but he was in control; that was good, because his own ears were ringing, and his muscles were aching with the effort not to shake, to keep still, not to take the bait.

 Mary didn’t answer. She didn’t need to – it was clear in the way she had said Bennett’s first name, the casual familiarity of it, as if they had known each other for a long time. Sherlock had always addressed that man formally – so had their friends, but not Mary. Oh, no – for her that fucking bastard was Herman.

If Sherlock was still talking, after that, he did not hear him – he could not hear or see a single thing that wasn’t the woman in front of him. She was an assassin, she was the mother of his daughter, she was armed, she was close, she had not needed to tie them down – he understood,  now,  the reason for those Plexiglas cages. She didn't need to lay a hand on them to hurt them. She never did.

He moved, and part of him knew it was a mistake, that it was the reason why Mary had said those words. She was still playing, she would play until her last breath, probably.

Her training surpassed his own, he had been trained as a soldier, but she had been trained to dispose of enemies – she had been trained to have the upper hand in physical combat even if she was in pain – and she was; when he was up and close with her he saw that she was in a lot of pain; giving birth was painful before, after and during the fact.

He had wanted to watch Herman Bennett bleed, he had wanted to smash his head in – and see him in pain; he had watched him die, but it was not enough.

And she was right: she was not a junkie he could beat up in a crack house; nevertheless it felt good, for a moment, to charge her, to hit where he knew it would hurt the most because she was an assassin, but he was a doctor, he knew how to hurt people.

He was stronger than her, but she was better trained and more lucid than him, she might have a personal reason for doing what she had done, but she was far more rational than he was. She was probably completely aware of her surroundings, of each sound and image whereas he could not focus on anything: it was all a haze, a reddish haze making his pulse throb, the bile in his throat fighting to come up, he couldn’t even feel pain and the only sounds he could hear, the only thing he could feel was Mary’s breath, her soft cries of pain, the texture of her clothes.

 She had goaded him into yet another trap – and it didn’t matter how many punches and hits he landed, it only took her to reach with her hand to her tablet, which, despite his attempts to stop her when they toppled to the floor she was able to do – and then pain exploded in his ears.

It was like having his head split open – from the inside and it was worse, much, much worse than the white noise he had had to hear, it was nails on blackboards amplified to the point that he just could not even try and stand up.

His nose was already bleeding and he clawed at his ears to take that fucking earpiece off, but stopped and heaved, barely refraining from retching all the bile he could taste in his mouth when he heard the unmistakeable sound of Mary cocking the gun and her voice, ripe with pain, that time, “Don’t.”

The noise stopped, abruptly and he was shaking, his heart beating hard and fast in chest and he nodded at Mary’s words.

“On your knees, hands behind your head, " Mary said.

He saw the way her lips curved as she looked at Sherlock  and pressed his lips into a thin line. He had not looked at Sherlock since Mary had opened the door, but he could not help it now; Sherlock was still standing, despite the fact that he was still bleeding, he could see blood coating the hand covering his side, he was ignoring the chair right next to him,   the other was splayed against the glass, he was keeping his eyes fixed on him, and he was too pale, he was not showing emotion, even if it was pretty useless at that point, but somehow it gave him strength.

“Does it look familiar?” Mary asked. She was talking to Sherlock. He could feel the weight of the gun’s  barrel against the back of his neck, even now she was using him to hurt Sherlock. He hated being again Sherlock’s damsel in distress.

“Which part?” Sherlock asked, “Me on my knees or pointing the gun at someone’s head?”

“Both –“ Mary said.

“You never meant for me to get out of this room, didn’t you?” John hissed.

“Actually, I did – but you couldn’t resist. You always have to make the wrong choices, John!” Mary said.

“It is familiar, on both ends.” Sherlock said, interrupting her.

He wanted to tell Sherlock not to bother, but he didn’t exactly excel at planning as the gun pointed at his head showed.

It was not the first time they were in such a situation: there had been the pool, a semtex vest and laser dots on both of them, there had been CIA operatives ready to shoot him to have Sherlock open a safe.

 “I’m sure it is,” Mary said, “how many times did it happen while you were playing being the hero?”

Both Mary’s grip on the gun and her voice were firm; she was not an amateur, but she was also human, despite everything – and he clearly heard the contempt in her voice as she said those words.

“You have been misinformed.” Sherlock said.

Christ, Sherlock was starting to slur his words a little, he was starting to sound and look like he had in Baker Street the night they had confronted Mary. They should have her arrested back then; but it was a moot point thinking about what ifs and things they should have done.

    Truth was? They were both fucked.

 

* * *

 

That was something he had not missed. The things that were not officially sanctioned, the violence, the fact that he was, despite being retired, still good at it. The man he was currently holding in a stronghold was – the weak link in the part of the chain they could see, as Mycroft Holmes had explained.

He was an accessory in a murder and a kidnapping, and he was the only one who would talk, who would crumble down quickly. The other man, the one who had killed one of Sherlock’s friends, according to the information he had been given, would not talk: not right away, not quickly enough to give them useful data to find Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and his daughter.

Mycroft’s assistant was talking to Joan at the hospital – he still had not seen her, he had just spoken to her briefly, to make sure she was ready and willing to talk, to go over what had happened when she had been taken. She was.

He was proud of her. He was not sure she would be proud of him if she could see him, now.

Self loathing was not something he was good at, however. He had hated his job toward the end, but he had slipped into the old habits far too easily. Mycroft Holmes needed answers, he needed them immediately, and he would do what he had been asked to do.

He did it for the money, he did it because he needed to know that no one would ever get the idea of touching his fiancé again. He did it because he had been used and that had been the biggest, dumbest mistake Mary Morstan and whoever she was working with had ever done.

“Gavril Sidorov,” William Moore repeated.

The human body had 206 bones, 650 to 840 muscles, and countless nerves. He knew them – he knew how to hurt people and he was not willing to waste any time.

If Sherlock Holmes died – he would not be considered responsible for it, but he could see clearly what would happen: Mycroft Holmes would start a war, and there would be a lot of casualties along the way because the consulting detective was, possibly, the only shred of humanity Mycroft Holmes had; without him he would coldly, mercilessly do everything in his power to utterly destroy whoever was responsible for his brother’s death.

People would die – people would be sacrificed and there was not a ounce of doubt in his mind that he would use everything and everyone to get what he wanted. And the same would happen to the other side.

They would use everything and everyone: including the fact that Joan and him had been chosen for that game or his expertise and contacts. And that could not happen. Ever.

“Who?” The man said. He was tall – not as tall as his accomplice, he was showing signs of withdrawal, he was – ready to break. He just needed to push him a little. 

“Russian man, Moscow accent, blonde, blue-grey eyes, 6 foot tall, he likes to chop off fingers,” William said, “Victor Trevor identified your voice and his. Where the fuck is he?”

He was operating using the intel Mycroft Holmes and his assistant had given him. Gavril Sidorov was not in the system and he doubted they would find anything, if there was a mole within secret services it was not his concern, but he _could_ make that man talk.

Those were his orders, after all. The questions he had – one, truly, would have to wait.

“I’m dead if I say anything.” The man said.

Oh, excellent! Mycroft Holmes had estimated it would take about one hour to break the man – here it was the breach he needed. Mycroft had also told him to surpass his expectations.

“You already are –“ William said, “I thought you had been already informed.”

That man might be a good assassin, but he truly had thought that job would be like the others. Time to disabuse him, once and for all, from that notion.

Part of him couldn’t help thinking, even as the man started to speak, that it was too easy, that he had been a good interrogator, but not _that_ good, that they were still playing Mary Morstan’s game.

 

* * *

 

The meeting had been brief, tense and mostly uneventful; Mycroft Holmes still did not know the name and the identity of the person who had taken Jim Moriarty’s place, he did not know whether it was a man or a woman, he did not know how it had started. He knew _when_ , however. He knew _why_.

It had started shortly after Sherlock had faked his suicide.

Vacuum of power was something he had anticipated, at the time; that was why the information he had provided Sherlock with had not been _completely_ exhaustive. Balance was needed, it was a necessary evil.

Sherlock had slayed dragons, he had – been exceptional, but he had not been privy of all the facts, all the names. Still, he was proud of his brother. If they were different people, perhaps, he would have told him at the time – but they were not. 

It had started in the dark web and there were little or no signs in the real world  - the people they monitored had not changed their patterns, they had not formed new alliances that they knew of. 

Whoever was pulling the strings was extremely careful, to the point of paranoia. They had only moved when Sherlock and him had been too busy, too distracted to really notice things that would have been otherwise obvious. 

Something had changed, however; it had been subtle, as not to alert him, as not to arouse Sherlock’s suspicions despite the distractions he had been subjected to,  but it was there.

It was not just the matter of finding Sherlock and his doctor, it was far more than that. Someone had started a war on New Year’s day, they had made sure to hide – but nothing and no one could remain hidden forever.

Anthea knocked at the door right when his mobile phone rang; she did not wait for him to tell her to come in, that only meant that it was urgent.

He answered the phone and listened to what William Moore had to say.

They had an address, at last - and it was the same one Anthea gave him, moments later: the result of combined efforts of the British secret services, a Scotland Yard detective inspector and the clue Mary Morstan had given them before her fake execution.

"How do we proceed?" She asked.

"With extreme discretion," Mycroft said.

There was the matter of the missing records about Gavril Sidorov - and he was not sure he could trust anyone at the moment. Later, after he dealt with the current situation, he would make sure that the moles were found and dealt with.

"I see," She  said.

He told her to remain there, and perhaps it was sentiment being endemic, but he masked it efficiently behind logic.

She clearly wanted to object; after all - it was her job to make sure that no harm would come to him.

She did not say a word, however, for which he was grateful.

"Did you determine why did they choose Mr. Moore and Ms. Adams?" Mycroft asked.

"Hubris, I think," Anthea said.

It had not been Mary's decision, then - or whoever she responded to.

She did not tell him to be careful, she did not say a word. And yet, Sherlock had posed an interesting dilemma: would he have allowed Anthea to play bait?

He chose to ignore the answer.

 

* * *

 

That was the moment she had been clearly waiting for.

 _Retribution_ , of course – she had exerted flesh and blood from him, repeatedly, but it was not enough, apparently. She wanted more.

“Have I?” Mary asked. Her American accent was slipping more and more, but she didn’t seem to notice.

 _Loss_. He had taken someone away from her – and she felt entitled to do the same to him. She had repaid him in kind for years, and that was just another step toward her goal.

 He supposed he should feel something – _anything_ watching Mary pointing a gun at John’s head, but the truth was that he was too focused on the woman to actually be afraid which, he supposed, was one way his brain was coming up with to protect him. Too little and too bloody late! 

“That was not what I was doing.” He said. It was the truth. He had no reasons to lie at that point, none of them did.

John was looking at him, he looked angry (at Mary, at himself), too pale, a large bruise was forming on his jaw and his nose was bleeding. The odds of John beating Mary had never been high despite the pain she was in; he had hoped, for that reason, that John would not engage her, but she had known just what to say to set John off. Predictable, really – but he couldn’t begrudge John for that.

He was surprised realising how little he cared about what she had said. He supposed that a gun pointed to John’s head, held by a woman who hated him so much that she had ordered a man to carve him up and rape him trumped the anger he might have felt otherwise.

 If he survived (balance of probability said otherwise), he might allow himself the luxury of being angry, of falling apart. He didn’t have time for that, now.  

She looked like she wasn’t even paying attention to John, but Sherlock knew that she had everything under control. John was exactly where she wanted him to be. They both were.

“I did not play at being a hero. Or a superspy.” He continued.

Whatever illusion he might have held about taking down Moriarty’s web had soon clashed with  the stark reality of what it truly meant.

Mary nodded her head – despite everything there was still perfect understanding between them: if Moriarty had somehow been the darkest part of himself, the living cautionary tale of what he might have been had things been different, Mary embodied – the lies he told, the people he had deceived, the countless hours spent running, squatting away in bleak rooms or cargo ships, the people he had had to kill while being away.

And she was feeling the same thing, he could clearly see it in her eyes. Did she hate it as much as he did? How could two people who hated each other so much have such a deep connection that went beyond intellectual prowess?  

“I see. Nothing personal, then; just doing your job, right?” Mary said.

He nodded. It was – true, in a sense. It was also a lie because everything he had done while being away had been personal: to ensure that Moriarty’s legacy didn’t carry on, to make sure that the people he loved were still and would keep being safe. And she knew. She didn’t believe in what she had said and she did not believe him. She always knew when he fibbed.

“How many people did you kill, Sherlock?” Mary asked.

“Be specific, Mary.” He said, surprised by how scathing the tone of his voice was. He had sort of forgot that he could be like that. He levelled her with a cold stare and continued, “I am responsible for _many_ people’s deaths.”

It was the truth. The codes he had cracked when he was young and full of hubris (even more than he was now) and his veins had craved the needle and what it promised, had made him responsible for a lot of people’s deaths.

The cases he had refused to solve because they were mind numbingly boring, the people he had not helped, the old woman Moriarty had used for one of their games and her neighbours were dead because of a game.

And there were the people Herman Bennett had killed to get his attention, the four men he had killed when he had retrieved Joan, and Janine. Oh, Mary needed to be far more specific if she wanted to play with him. And he knew what she wanted to know. She didn’t care about those people – she only cared about _one_. 

“What do you want to know, really?” He asked, “You clearly want to inquiry about one specific death. Ask directly!”

He was bleeding, there were black spots dancing before his eyes, he had gone too deep with the knife, he had missed vital organs, but the bleeding was starting to be a nuisance. John had a gun pointed at the back of his head and he still did not understand why on Earth she was stalling. 

 _Love_. She had loved whoever he had taken away from her; a man, obviously, judging by the watch she was wearing; not a relative, but a lover; it did not exactly take a genius to understand that, it had been clear ever since he had received the pictures at the hospital and, later, Victor had been taken.

Love was a vicious motivator, but it was heartbreak that was stopping Mary from asking what she truly wanted to know.

She was stalling for more than a reason, he deduced; he was aware of the images on the tv screen, of John’s daughter still peacefully sleeping – and there was still something eluding him, something he couldn’t quite grasp about what he was seeing. It was like watching Mary being executed, again. He knew there was a trick in there somewhere, he just didn’t have the time to understand the specifics.

There was also a further personal reason for her stalling: she had played with their lives for far too long to be able to just stop; she _liked_ the game, she loved the power she had over them, she didn’t want it to end. 

He looked at the scene in front of him: Mary had asked him whether it looked familiar and he had not lied when he had said that it did, on both ends – and he remembered each and every instance of when it happened. Which one was Mary interested in? 

“See, John?” Mary said, “He needs _help_ to remember, happens all the time when the numbers are high, you sort of lose count, faces start to blur into each other –“

“I haven’t forgotten,” Sherlock said interrupting her, “and I already told you that I am responsible for many people’s deaths.”

John was looking at him. He had teased him about being a spy, days before, and he had smiled because watching John smile was – something he had always valued, but being a _spy_ had not been like in the movies John loved – it had been lonely, it had been tedious to the extreme, hours upon hours spent waiting, travelling, trying not to get caught – and it had also meant, in some occasions, especially for the first year, to take lives – he had learned to delegate, after.

But it had been after Istanbul, after dingy rooms that smelled of stale beer and weed and after Chicago and Mexico and dozens of big and small cities around the globe.

 There was no contempt on John’s face, or pity – he was looking at him and he didn’t even seem to care about the gun pointed at his head.

“Is John supposed to be scandalised by my lack of moral scruples? He knows who I am!” He said. He had told John countless times not to make people into heroes, least of all him. 

Mary scoffed at his words,  and for the briefest moment she was the woman he had met at that restaurant, the one John must have fallen in love with. A facade, of course, but so convincing and endearing that he too had fallen for it.

 “Perhaps, I can help you narrow it down,” Mary said.

She took a step back from John, and here it came – the moment she had been waiting for, and he had to force his heartbeat to slow down, he could taste blood in his mouth and he knew that begging for mercy would be useless; he remembered the text John had got, the simply ciphered words on it.

No mercy.

And it didn’t matter whether Mycroft would find him or not – Mary was in no rush. It only took a moment to pull a trigger and end a life. He should know.

 _Oh_.

The way she was holding the gun, her stance – it was familiar. It was not like he had truly seen her for the first time, in Magnussen’s bedroom: she had been confident, then – she had been a professional (she had also been waiting for him, he finally, _finally_ deduced. Assassins like Mary did not waste time hearing people begging, she had not killed Janine and the other man, there had been no need to.), but now she was _enacting_ a scene.

Yes, of course; he was narrowing it down, even as he was keeping his eyes fixed on John, and the man was looking at him and he had never told him that he loved him, he had never said the three words, as trite as they were – and saying them now, in front of Mary would make her victory all the sweeter.

And the look in John’s eyes – there was resignation, and love. And oh, that was so disconcertingly _familiar_.

Mary used her right hand to balance the weight of the gun and that gesture clinched it – it was deliberate. She wanted him to deduce – she wanted him to feel what she must have felt, after.

 And she was letting him see now, she was allowing him to deduce everything: it was all in her hands, in the way she was tilting her head, in how she was not smiling and that was the real Mary: cold eyes, heartbroken, not a psychopath genius like Jim Moriarty, their paths would never have crossed if he hadn’t killed someone she loved. 

Someone: a lover, a husband; a man – someone she had met on the job, someone she had been devoted to and the devotion must have been mutual. She had talked about devotion, she had been testing his devotion to John for years. Only someone who did understand what devotion was could have used it so seamlessly as a weapon. 

 Mary’s left hand trembled, from that angle and distance, however, she could not miss.  It was impossible not to kill the target even while

_Still bleeding, with two broken fingers on his left hand_

The way she was supporting the gun’s weight with her non dominant hand was just _perfect_ , it was exactly how it had been.

“Getting there, ain’t you?” Mary asked. There were no traces of her true accent now, it was American, mid western, to be precise.

 _Oh_ – he had not asked Mycroft about what William Moore and Irene Adler had uncovered, which names had prompted them to go to Chicago to investigate and why he had lied to him about William.

That had been just the last in a long list of mistakes. It hardly mattered, now. He doubted that Mycroft would have the chance to gloat that time.

“I do,” He said, after a moment.

Was he supposed to do or say more? Was he supposed to tell her that he regretted his actions? He did, but it would serve no purpose.

Mary knew. Mary did not want or care for platitudes; they would not change the facts and whatever he chose to say might set her off – and she didn’t want that, or she would have already killed John.

No, she wanted it to last, but why was she  still stalling? If he knew his brother, and he did, better than anyone, he must have found him – it wouldn’t be long and that was not childish, wishful thinking, not any longer – he could see the same awareness in Mary and that was something he couldn’t figure out. She should make the most of the time she had left: make him open the other boxes, hurt him, reach the climax of her game –

No – she wanted her revenge and her games, she didn’t want to relinquish the power she had over him – them. Not just yet.

That was possibly the only thing that could save John’s life – her only weakness.

“Concentrate, Sherlock – I want you to concentrate!” Mary said.

“What do you want to know?” He asked. 

Did she want details? Did she want the truth?

Did she want the play by play of what had happened? She must have read the autopsy report because the way she had stepped back, held the gun and the position she was standing in was compatible with the wound to the back of the head of _one_ particular man.

She blinked her eyes, she was paling under his eyes, she was – afraid of hearing his words as much as he feared the bullet going through John’s head.

He wasn’t sure whether speaking, telling her the truth – would spare John’s life.

There was only one way to find out.

“Brian Cooper.” He said.

 

* * *

 

Scotland Yard was not officially involved, therefore he was not there as a copper, nevertheless he had not hesitated, not for one second, when the information had come, when the team had been assembled: only people Mycroft Holmes trusted, people who he knew for sure were not compromised because on top of everything else, there was probably a mole within secret services. Christ, he truly did not envy Mycroft Holmes at the moment!

Mycroft Holmes had not needed to ask, and he had not said a word either. He had been there when things had gone to hell and he would be there that time, too.

He had been given a bulletproof vest, a gun (not the unlicensed one he had previously used) and the air was thick with tension and anticipation. 

 Molly had hugged him before he left, and if it had been a movie there would have been words exchanged, or he would have just kissed her goodbye. He had not kissed her, but her hand had been on his cheek and she had told him to be careful, to come back.

And it was dangerous – he knew it was because there had been too many casualties already and they were all experienced enough to know that William Moore had got the information they needed too easily; years of careful planning thrown to the wind by one junkie assassin? How likely was that?

 Mary, who had her execution faked – and it had been a bloody good job, because on screen it looked real, it had been made to fool the people who would watch it – had given them a clue. She wanted to be found.

It was a trap, and since her grudge was personal, and given their recent past, she probably took it for granted – and rightfully so – that they would fall for it.

They were prepared for bombs, for any number of tricks;  it was a small team, driving in unmarked helicopters and cars,  and a van who had been sent to the site the moment they had got the address; when Sherlock had been taken by Herman Bennett Mycroft Holmes had not been part of the rescue team. He had overseen things, but he had stayed away from action. Not that time, apparently.

  He didn’t know, couldn’t imagine that Mycroft Holmes had learned Serbian, infiltrated and climbed the ranks of a criminal ring in order to bring his brother back home. He wouldn’t have been surprised anyway if he had known. It was personal for Mycroft Holmes, but it was also about someone who had played a game for years, infiltrated secret services, police, hacked servers and, above all, had played him for a fool.

He was in one of the cars, with Drake (he still didn’t know his first name) and another agent. None of them was saying it aloud, but there was the possibility that the reason why Mary had given them that clue in that video and that it had been relatively easy to retrieve the information they needed was because they might find just the bodies of Sherlock and John.

Mycroft, however, for some reason was sure that they would find them alive. He hoped he was right. He truly did. He hoped he had information he had not shared with them.

There hadn’t even been time to plan a perfect strategy, but the agents Mycroft had chosen had been quick to come up with a plan of action, they were clearly used to those sort of operations. 

He looked at Drake who didn't seem perturbed by the possibility of finding dead bodies or the fact that they would plunge headfirst into a trap.

He wanted to ask what happened in Mexico if it had been in any way similar to the mess they were into, but he knew he would not get an answer.  Besides,  they were almost there: a big,  elegant house, away from the chaos of central London, but definitely not the suburb where Mary Morstan had lived.

But then again,  Mary Morstan had not really existed. 

That was the house where they had likely kept Victor Trevor and chopped his fingers off, according to the information they had; it was isolated, he had read Trevor’s statement about not hearing any noise and not being able to look out the windows and it added up: he could see that the windows were all tainted.

The house didn’t look abandoned, however, there was a gate at the front and he suspected there were all sort of surveillance systems.

Whoever was inside the house would probably hear the helicopters landing, they must have spotted the van and the cars, but he doubted it would make any difference at that point. 

And then bullets started firing, all around them – and he knew, he knew why he was there.  He had been the first one to get into the small, soundproof room where Sherlock had been held. He had shot Herman Bennett, he had unchained Sherlock. He would get inside that house if it was the last thing he did.


	20. ~ …It’s the landing ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That moment had played itself out in thousands of different ways in her mind: but it usually featured Sherlock on his knees, with the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head, after she was done being creative with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's almost it: this fan-fiction is no longer a wip! It's finished. It took me two and half years, a severe case of writer's block after Season 4 (watch me write a fix it which will hopefully not take forever to be written!) 239k words, plus 100k that ended up on the cutting floor for various reasons.  
> I wrote this chapter about a hundred times, in the end - my muse came up with this :)  
> Thank you to all the people who took the time to read, leave kudos and bookmarked the story. Thank you for sticking with this angst fest, and I hope you have enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed writing it.

 

 

**Chicago**

_The instructions were clear, almost redundant, given the circumstances; they had been given_ before _, however. Not that it was an excuse since he had known from the very beginning that the only way to get the names he needed, the information he had been looking for was to be taken; he had to play bait to the small fishes so that he could get the bigger ones._

_It might be a cavalier and reckless way of gaining results, at least according to the people who were supposed to help him (they were obstacles and mostly slowed him down and derailed him, nevertheless that night he had seen that it was somewhat positive to have proper backup), but it never failed to bring forth results and, in the end, that was the only thing that truly mattered._

_He had known there would be pain: getting results_ always _came with a price and, truth be told, it was not even the worst he had experienced since Barts._

_It truly wasn’t; the men who had taken him had been insufferably inept, therefore the physical reaction he was experiencing was completely unwarranted. It was – unjustified._

_And yet –_

_And yet – he was shaking, his body was reacting to the trauma sustained: sprained_

_muscles, broken bones – but the worst thing was how breathing was proving to be an almost Herculean task, even now that he was safely in the car and his limbs no longer were numb with cold, and he had stopped feeling like he would hack up gallons of water all over again._

_Both the mole and the driver were silent and tense, they were eyeing him and it did not take his deduction skills to see that they were wondering whether he was going to keel over and, yes, he knew it was due to the fact that he was exaggerating his physical symptoms not to make them suspicious, but he frankly despised the fact that there was a basis of truth in what he was doing._

_There were instructions, however. Orders or directives, if one were inclined to discuss semantics, which he truly wasn’t, not at the moment. Bloody Mycroft and his thorough way of dealing with obstacles. Bloody Mycroft his simplistic view of the world and its inhabitants as a huge chess board filled to the brim with pieces he could toy with._

_The gun was, of course, exactly where he had been told it would be beforehand: there were no surprises there since neither the driver nor the mole had had any reason to suspect, to doubt, or to even think about inspecting the car. He could not begrudge them for their naivety since he had been guilty of the same on more than one occasion._

_Taking lives, for example, was something he still had not got used to.  In the beginning, during the first few weeks after he left London, once he had got the first results, he had thought that his intellect would and could be enough, that things would be like in London – but on a bigger scale. He had thought it would be like the games he had played with Jim Moriarty: elegant and challenging._

_He had been naïve. He had clearly been an idiot!_

_Nevertheless, he did what he had to do and so far, every act (murder) had always been justifiable – it would still be, at least logically and as far as the British and American governments were concerned, when he followed the strict instructions he had been given._

_It was not just the matter of his own survival, of how pivotal it was that no one knew he was still alive and that he had not committed suicide in London or he would not keep playing bait, much to the chagrin of operatives all over the world, but when it came to the matter of other people (John-Mrs.Hudson-Lestrade, his mind kept supplying, at oddest times), even if the three shooters in London had been long apprehended he could not and would not afford the luxury of taking risks._

_Logic. Or sentiment. Or a bit of both, he wasn’t sure and he truly couldn’t bring himself to care._

_ETA to the Rendez Vous point was in less than five minutes. He was still shaking (why? Why was his body betraying him like that? He was supposed to be above that, above physical pain!) and he was still trying to get air into lungs that felt sore and in desperate need of it, even if the process hurt, but he kept casting glances at the two men in the car with him, he had to make sure that they did not suspect what was going to happen. He could not take any chance. He had the name he needed, he had to leave Illinois and never look back._

_No one had told him how, when or even why the two men: one a freelancer who had been paid a lot of money to drive a car and another, a petty criminal, loosely associated to one of the men in the apartment, had chosen to trust either government figures or shadowy people to deliver on what they had promised._

_He had not asked, he had not cared. He still didn’t._

_No one had told him much or, perhaps, as Mycroft never tire of repeating him, he had not listened. All he had seen was a quick resolution, something to spare him precious time after days spent being either bored almost to distraction or feeling like he was losing the momentum by going in circles. Plucking out Jim Moriarty’s web, thread after thread, was his job, it was the right thing to do, it was war – and each war had casualties._

_On one thing Moriarty had been right that night at the pool: dying was what people did._

There _. He thought, glad to be brought to the present when he identified the road they were in and saw the black SUV already waiting for them. He wondered why was he the one who had to – do what it needed to be done, especially given the circumstances._

_Was it his brother’s way to show him that it was not a game? That he was not in London and that there was a lot at stake?_

_He knew that already!_

_Surely, his brother must have anticipated that he would be wounded (tortured) and yet the gun was exactly where it was supposed to be, therefore there had been no changes in the plan._

_“We’re almost there!” The man in the passenger seat said. The fact that he wasn’t even turning to look at him, that he was too busy checking to see if they had been followed told him that he was underestimating him, that his impromptu act had succeeded; the mole was clearly more concerned about what he was leaving behind than about the man he had helped escape._

_The driver was not even an issue; he was a moron, he was in it just for the money, he didn’t care about Jim Moriarty, his associates or his legacy: his job had clearly been to make sure they were not followed and he had delivered._

_He closed his eyes for a moment, and he immediately realized that it was possibly the most idiotic thing he had done that day: he felt the world spinning around him, the noises faded, except for the sound of his own voice, mind and heart (the same one Jim Moriarty had threatened to burn out of him) reprising the composition of a farewell letter to John, one he couldn’t conceivably send or even write down, under any circumstance. It would still be impossible – even if things were different and he was still in London._

_He couldn’t even check if the gun, a Smith and Wesson (how – American), 9 mm, was loaded. He had to presume it was._

_Later, he would tell his brother, in no uncertain terms, that he had gotten the message, that he had learned his lesson that time, and that from that moment on he would have to employ someone else for his little cleanup jobs._

_He would remind Mycroft that his job was to tear down Moriarty’s web, to ensure that his legacy did not endure, it was not doing hits for the government (whichever Mycroft chose to lend his people to)._

_And Mycroft would graciously acquiesce._

_That would happen later, however; on that deserted road, that night, he was too busy drawing breaths and calculating the odds, predicting scenarios because he could not count on his physical strength._

_He also found a certain dark irony in the fact that he would have to execute two somewhat innocent men having to rely exclusively on his intellect and deductions since his body was not in peak condition; he had not anticipated that although highly amateurish, the people in that apartment would indeed hurt him, and the new injuries added to the ones he had been collecting for months, were making him unexpectedly weak._

_He also had not anticipated how strongly his body would react to what had happened in that decrepit apartment._

_Instructions: get the mole out of the car and direct him to the black vehicle where he would be subdued, shoot the driver in the back of the head, get out of the car (the original plan did not anticipate that he would be doing that after being tortured.) and get rid of the mole._

_He was to do it, not the other agents sent there to whisk him away from Chicago. That was his mission, therefore his mess to fix. It didn’t exactly make sense, how was it logical given the circumstances? Balance of probability was not exactly in his favour, and it defied common sense._

_That was his current life, in a nutshell,  he thought, as the mole got out of the car and he glimpsed doubts in the man's brown eyes for the first time, but he was still good at pretending, he was still good at the game._

«I am aware of what Sally Donovan may have told you throughout our – acquaintance. You told me once that she said that I got off on crime scenes – or crimes or, possibly, in her opinion, death or dead people. I don’t know, I stopped listening to her inane words a long time ago. 

I do hope, however, that you know it is not true, it has never been, John.

You were – _are_ a soldier, you went to war, you know what it entails.

However, logic and whatever passes for humanity I have left (am I a machine? It would be far easier if I truly were I am discovering) go against what I am about to do.

I do understand why; I do understand that mercy would mean putting too many lives at stake.

You killed a man, for me, shortly after we met; he wasn’t a very good man, much like the people I am dealing with, I cannot delude myself into thinking that I am saving your life by doing what I have to do. Even if it is somewhat true.

Sally Donovan was not right, however, I do not get off on death. Far from it. »

_He shook himself away from that stupid letter he was still writing in his head. John had talked to him, in his mind, while his head was kept underwater – but now it was all eerily quiet: in his head, in his mind palace and outside in the real world too._

_He knew those sort of silences, he had already experienced them, right before things_

_became – erratic and loud._

_“Do you need a hand to get out of there, buddy?” The man, the mole, asked._

_He shook his head, the gun was still hidden, he noticed that the man was in a hurry he was suspicious, but he mostly wanted that job and that night to be over and done, he wanted to go away. He could sympathise._

_He didn’t pay too much attention to the man’s accent, he didn’t truly care, it wouldn’t matter in the official report he would have to write, after._

_He waited, as per the instructions he had been given, sparing a thought to his brother, who was probably overseeing the whole operation or, perhaps, Anthea was and would update him, after._

_He got out of the car, knowing that the other operatives were already in place; whatever his thoughts on the matter were, they needed to wait, his hands were shaking (and it hurt, each shiver sent jolts of pain throughout his body), each breath caught his lungs on fire and he felt suddenly exhausted, which was – somewhat surprising._

_He counted the mole’s steps, as he approached the driver of the SUV waiting for them and he readied himself, acutely aware of how cold and heavy the gun was in his hand._

_He would learn the two men’s names, later, he would learn whatever scrap of information Mycroft’s people had uncovered about them._

_He would only learn later, much later, that the information about one of the men was incorrect._

_That night, however, he didn’t know those men’s names. He didn’t care._

 

**London, the same day**

****

_She had resolutely refused to check her watch during her shift at the clinic; she had smiled, worked on autopilot, ignoring – or, at least, trying to, that feeling deep in her gut, the one that had saved her life countless times, that always alerted her when things were about to go south._

_The mask, her cover identity was firmly in place, unshakable as her shift ended and she got ready to go home._

_The flat she was staying in was not home, not truly. It was where she had laid down the groundwork for her identity, made it rock solid so that when Alex came things would go on without a hitch. Their house was ready, it had been ready for months._

_She did not check her watch on the way home, even if she was acutely aware of the time, she always was. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, she was tasting adrenaline on her tongue, even if she was in the fucking suburbs, one or two continents away from danger and no one knew her, no one was looking for her. No one suspected._

_The hair to the back of her neck was standing up, but she kept her usual pace, the soft smile stuck on her lips, her hands steady (muscle memory, she decided, was a nasty bitch, years and years of training were second nature to her, or third, or whichever of the nine lives she seemed to have, despite everything, she was at that point), key into the lock, the white door solid and inconspicuous. She knew some of her neighbours were watching her, she could always tell when it happened, and she did not stray, she never did._

_Her face didn’t fall when she closed the door of her flat, she took two calming breaths and closed her eyes for a moment, but those were the only cracks she allowed to her façade._

_She had swapped stories throughout the years with colleagues, back when what she did – used to do – was sanctioned, was still on the right side of the law or whatever bullshit government agencies and agents told themselves to sleep at nights; she had heard stories about that feeling, like nails on a chalkboard, that cold vice that wrapped so tightly inside a person that it was a wonder how one could breathe._

_Well, she couldn’t._

_It didn’t matter how much she tried to rationalise her fear, there was still that closed fist wrapped around her heart and it wasn’t letting go._

_She moved, shrugging her coat, gloves and scarf off, turned the lights on, even if the first thing she had done when she had moved into that flat, out of habit, was to learn its perimeter, the weak and strong points, how to move in that space without lights on, how to survive._

_It had been the usual stuff that she knew it would always be part of her, even when Alex came home. The stuff he would do as well because they were similar. She imagined for a moment Alex in that flat, with the lights off, learning his way in the dark and she almost smiled. The vice was starting to fucking take her breath away._

_Alex was coming home. He had to._

_She still didn’t check the watch, but she moved around the flat, took the cell phone from its hiding place behind the cupboard, plugged it in, Alex would call that number, or the landline if things went south. She had made him promise to call the minute he was done with his job._

_Alex kept his promises, Alex never missed a call. It had never happened. She could feel her heart bursting in her chest and yet her hands were steady as she took three sips of cold water that did nothing to ease the metallic taste she could feel on her tongue._

_She did not look at the clock on the wall or her watch or the display of the cell phone.  She knew that it was not late, not yet – she had also been in the business long enough to know that it was not an exact science: shit could happen, jobs could take more than anticipated, even simple ones –_

_The vice around her heart (apparently, she did have one, she also still had a soul. Who would have thought?) tightened even more. She hated that feeling. She hated what it meant because that feeling only meant one thing and there was fuck all she could do about it._

_She could just_ wait _._

 

**Chicago**

****

_The logical thing to do, since he had already pulled the trigger on the driver was that the men dealt with the mole since they were closer to him, but no. Of course, they had their orders too. And it was all his doing, after all: he was the one who had got tired of waiting, who had come up with the plan, who had orchestrated how he would be caught and estimated how long it would take to get the name he needed. He was the one who used to think that untangling Moriarty’s web would be child’s play._

_He was the one whose brother was the British Government and could teach him a lesson about patience and hubris._

_The mole was still looking for ways out, for alternatives. He was armed and he knew that the man would have no qualms about using his gun on all of them if he thought his chances were good._

_They weren’t. He was trapped._

_And yes, he himself was weak, his head too heavy and hot because of the fever that had spiked up and his lungs felt like they were on fire, but the other men were in excellent health and they had not spent the past months plucking away Jim Moriarty’s men one by one._

_The mole was not stupid, he was not an amateur, even in his current state he could see the way he scanned the road, the men, how he calculated the odds – and they were bad. He was trapped._

_For a moment, he thought he would try anyway; that he would try a daring escape using the narrow window of possibility; he saw how the man quickly considered his options and he could not help deducing him – all the things that he had seen when he had met him and had handed him the keys to the handcuffs while pretending to manhandle him were coming back, more detailed than they had been at first._

_He blinked his eyes; he did not want to know anything about the man, about his life, his habits – it didn’t matter, it would be over soon anyway and the man must have come to that realisation, he noticed, because his eyes had stopped darting everywhere._

_If he was good, really, really good he could perhaps succeed in running away – he knew that if he were in peak form he might succeed. The thing that surprised him was that the man_ was _good, and yet he was immobile, now._

Oh _. He thought when he saw the man slumping his shoulders in defeat. He had seen the look in his eyes, it didn’t matter how dark they were and how inadequate the lighting was on that road (which was the reason it had been chosen, after all)._

_Consequences. He was about to kill a man – not even the first one for the day – because of possible consequences; because the three assassins poised to kill Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John might have been dealt with, but there was no guarantee that there would not be others._

_It was a risk he was not willing to take._

_John had been speaking to him – in his mind, clear as day, as if he was still home, in their flat, more and more often lately, but his mind was silent, barren, now._

_That was not a game, that had stopped being a glamorous and exciting adventure for months and that must be his brother’s way of reminding him of the reality of his situation._

_And the reality was that he had a job to finish, even if there were other men who could and should, even if the high fever he was running was making it impossible for him to keep his hand steady and he had two broken fingers in his non-dominant hand._

_The mole was not stupid, on the contrary, he was an intelligent man and clearly, he was more than a thug for hire._

_His deductions did not matter, not at the moment, perhaps never (years later he would find out just how wrong he had been in that regard), yet they were there – he understood why the man was not even trying to run away, why he was accepting the inevitable._

_It should be – if not child’s play, at least easy. It wasn’t the first life he took, he had droplets of blood on his shirt and neck belonging to the driver of the car, his knuckles were swollen and bruised because he had taken other lives, in an old apartment._

_That was different, however._

_That was an execution, the sort one saw in some of the movies John liked to watch: a man on his knees, a gun pressed to the back of the head, a road in the middle of nowhere, on a chilly and windy night. Except, that in none of the movies John watched (and he pretended not to) the shooter’s hand was so unsteady and sweat trickled over his feverish skin making him shake even more._

_Wasn’t body supposed to be just transport for him? When did things change? When did he become so weak?_

_Loss. Regret, worry – all things he had glimpsed in the eyes of the man on his knees. Death as a calculated risk to protect someone else. He sympathised. He truly did._

_He had to blink sweat out of his eyes before he could pull the trigger._

 

* * *

 

 

She had waited for that moment for a long time: there had been whole days, weeks, where the _only_ thing her mind had focused on was what she would do to Sherlock Holmes when she finally got him.

At the time, she had barely known how Sherlock even looked like, she had not known John Watson, she had not known or cared about the two men’s relationship, she still had not known how deeply connected the two men truly were.

She remembered feeling only that white, burning hatred inside herself, even if no one had been able to tell from the outside: she had kept doing what she always did, acting as if she was still waiting for Alex to come home, solidifying her cover, making Mary Morstan something more than an alias, one of the many she had bought through the years.

There had not even been a reason for her actions at first, she had simply gone through the motions; it hadn’t even been a matter of instinct because if she had listened to the primeval part of her, the one burning with anger, the one that kept screaming and keeping her awake at nights, she would have found Sherlock Holmes, wherever he was, kill him, make him pay and then ditch him like road kill just like he had done to Alex.

 There had not been a plan, not yet. She had not known Mr Neal, that would come later, but she had known that one day, it did not matter how long it took, she would make the man who had killed Alex pay.

And there she was: Sherlock was confined in a Plexiglas cell, unbound, but unable to do squat, John was on his knees, the barrel of her gun pressed against the back of his head; she took a pair of handcuffs from the back pocket of her trousers, she was relieved she had not lost them during her scuffle with John and Sherlock didn’t react, not even when she said, “John, listen carefully: if you move I’ll blow your brains out, understood?”

John craned his neck to look at her and said, “That would mean you actually _do_ something – “

John was not stupid; despite what he had just said he didn’t move, he let her handcuff him with his hands behind his back. She didn’t even need to raise her voice before saying, “Look at your boyfriend, really look: those scars? My idea.”

“You already said that,” John said between clenched teeth. Oh, it was nice to finally have _that_ , she had seen John failing miserably at pretending he still loved her, she had barely poked the bear and he had let out his anger, while Sherlock could only _watch._

“All the blood he has shed?” She continued, “Me. How fucking terrified he is at the idea of losing you, of you abandoning him? That’s me too – well, that’s both of us, actually. You were helpful, John. I wouldn’t have made it without you!”

 “Brian Cooper,” Sherlock said before John could do or say anything more. He repeated the name he had previously said, his voice was low and laced with pain, but it didn’t stop him from trying and divert her attention from John.

She ignored Sherlock, she ignored how much she hated the fact that he was saying that name – even if it wasn’t Alex’s real one (and she was still so proud of him because his cover had held even after his death. He truly had been good, the best at creating false identities and coming up with backgrounds that held even the strictest scrutiny), she hated the sound of his voice and the pain she could hear in it.

She hated that it was _not_ enough.

“Did he ever tell you why he broke the mirror in the bathroom?” She asked. She saw the way John clenched his fists and jaws, she felt how he was vibrating with anger, and she also saw the way Sherlock moved, almost imperceptibly against the Plexiglas wall and how his self-control was shot to shit. 

That was _almost_ it.

“Did he ever tell you why he didn’t do shit to knock Herman out cold? Because we did not see that coming!”

John didn’t move, didn’t react – but he was clenching his cuffed hands into such tight fists that she was surprised that he wasn’t drawing blood.

That moment had played itself out in thousands of different ways in her mind: but it usually featured Sherlock on his knees, with the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head, after she was done being creative with him.

She was usually not one to lose time and fuck around when she had a job to do unless specifically required by her clients, but the things she might have done to Sherlock had she had the time, would have made look his afternoon with Herman like a fucking walk in the park.

To think she had never been greedy, it was one of the reasons why she had lasted that long in her job: greediness made people make stupid mistakes, made people dumb, and yet – everything she had been part of, every moment of pain Sherlock had endured and would still endure until she was finished was not enough.

She was perfectly aware that time was running out and that as strategies went hers was abysmal, she had to fight every hard-ingrained part of her, every shred of self preservation she had left not to end things right then, before people burst through that door (it would buy her some time, but not much – it was just a piece of steel with a code, nothing that a good hacker or some good old C4 could not solve).

 “What do you want to know?” Sherlock asked when she did not react to his words, while those she had spoken were still lingering in the air. 

“In a moment.” She said, “I need John to understand – “  

She could see that Sherlock was still wondering why, despite the gunshots they could hear coming from outside the house, she had not done a thing. He was trying to deduce her – good luck with that! – he was still trying to save John.

Always John; since the very first time they had met, the man currently on his knees had been the centre of Sherlock Holmes’ life: his pressure point, his weakness. It had not been a surprise, it had been – almost satisfying to exploit that fact, to play, but both men were right; killing them, even by prolonging the act as much as she could, would not bring Alex back. 

 She was not stupid: the past was the past. Nothing and no one could change that.

“I understand perfectly,” John said. His voice was soft, but she knew him well: John Watson was not to be feared when he shouted or when he kicked chairs or even when he threw fits in a restaurant. John was to be feared when his voice was soft and he had a smile on his lips.

“Good.” She said, “Don’t be stupid, then.”

“I married you, how much more stupid can one get?” John hissed.

“Chicago, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, interrupting John and she had to smile because Sherlock would open all the remaining boxes if she asked, in order to shut John up,  not to let the man hear and know both how far he had gone and how not okay he had been for a very long time.

Nonetheless, Sherlock’s words, what he had just said hurt and she was surprised that it did; she had imagined that moment so many times, in so many ways, she had imagined it would be painful, but she had not known how much. She had – miscalculated. Mr Neal probably had expected that, but he surely was not concerned; that was her reward, she could do whatever she wanted with it.

“He was out – we were out!” She heard herself say. She had vowed a long time before that Sherlock Holmes would not get squat from her, that he would have to deduce and infer everything, even after things were over, but those words had nested in the back of her throat for years.

 It was the truth, for once. How ironic! It was one of the very few truths she had said to the two men in the room: she had been out and Alex too. They had had plans and dreams. They had left their pasts behind. Alex had saved her life – and she had not been there to save his. It was as simple as that.

“He wasn’t going to sell you out – “She continued. That was another truth. Alex had been everything but stupid: having the British government owe him would have been insurance. He must have considered the options, he must have thought the offer he had got (and she had not found out what it was, and not for lack of trying) was worth the risk, but he had not told her: why?

Sherlock nodded. He knew. The bastard knew. Had he deduced it right before he snuffed Alex out of existence and left him to rot to the side of the road? Or had he spared a thought about him _after_ , while he played being a hero all over the world? Or did it happen, there, in London while he pined for his best friend and played the self-sacrificing martyr?

“He was our mole,” Sherlock said. He was being careful with his words as if it made any difference at that point; as if it could or would change the outcome.

His words were slurred. Perhaps, he shouldn’t have been so ready to plunge that knife, but then again Sherlock was always ready and willing to be self-sacrificing for the man he loved to the point that he had not paid attention to the knife. Too bad.

And, perhaps, he should have wondered who could know so many things about his past and how it had come to be. He should have investigated on who had taken a stroll at Cambridge first and asked discreet questions about Victor Trevor, later.

It had not been her, of course. And, last she had checked, the bodies of the people who had asked questions had not been found, yet. Of course, perhaps, some of Sherlock’s old colleagues at school might remember something, but no one had investigated and Victor Trevor had just filed a police report after the break in his apartment, and the fact that among the things taken from him  there had been an old picture had not been important enough for him to warrant a phone call to his ex-boyfriend, apparently. 

Not that it mattered at that point. Mr Neal had anticipated that Sherlock would be too distracted when shit hit the fan to properly investigate and she had made sure, she had done everything in her power to ensure that he didn’t know which way was up and which was down at that point.

She blinked her eyes, focusing on what Sherlock had said, letting his words finally sink: Alex had not told her about being approached by any government operative, he had told her it was a well-paid job, a favour he owed. If he had told her the truth – what? She would have told him that it was dangerous? That he should know better than trusting government agencies after all the shit they had been through? Or would she have told him that they had done a good job themselves at disappearing and they did not need any help?

Perhaps, she would have just told him that they had waited so long, therefore, a few more months would not make any difference.

It didn’t matter. Not any longer.

“I don’t know the specifics, Mary – “Sherlock continued.

She smiled at his words. “Of course, we already covered that. You were just doing your job.” She said.

She hated that he looked genuinely sorry, almost ashamed at what he had done. It didn’t make any difference, she couldn’t care less about the fact that he might feel regret for his actions.

Sherlock didn’t reply at her words, for once he wisely chose to shut the fuck up. Not that it changed anything: she knew, she could see what was in his eyes, what he must have thought at the time.

He had pretended to die to protect his friends, his _precious_ John – killing Alex and all the people he had wasted before and after that, had been a sacrifice he had been willing to make.

She got that. She truly did, that had been the hardest part of it – she had seen what the choices Sherlock had made had changed him, haunted him, she had seen the black outs and she had known what caused them. That was one of the things Sherlock did not want to share with John, even though the man on his knees knew, had seen them for himself, had patched him up when he had lost it and smashed the mirror in his own bathroom after a black out; Sherlock did not want John to hear, even if John had been to war and was familiar with the number it could do on people’s brains. 

She got that Sherlock had been willing to make those choices and how surprised he had been when he had realized that despite all the big talk about being a sociopath, he was, in reality, fucking terrible at living with what he had done.

 The bitch of it was and had always been that: the fact that she _got_ him, because in

Sherlock’s shoes she would have done worse. She _had_ done worse. The only difference was that she was good at living with the consequences. She had never cared.

She heard other shots being fired. They were getting closer.

Good.

She cast a glance at Sidorov’s body on the floor; Mr Neal would not be happy about it, but she didn’t care. In the end, she knew that there was only one thing Mr Neal cared about: not to be found out, and there was only one thing left for her and luckily for the American man the two things matched, therefore he would accept the loss of one man because it would ensure that they both got what they wanted.  

“They’re almost here,” Sherlock said.

He was good at masking the relief he must be feeling at the thought of big brother to the rescue, but she had always been good at seeing when he fibbed. Sherlock Holmes was a good bullshitter, but she had worked with the best of them, she had been trained, in another life, when she had another name, to see right through the best liars out there.

Sherlock was scared.

He was right to be.

 “So, it seems,” She replied eventually. She smiled and added, “Sherlock, do you remember when you talked about surgery?”

 _There._ The almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, the too blank look on his face, but what he really felt was betrayed by the beads of perspiration on his temples and on the hollow of his throat.

She had the time to ask a few more questions, to know what had happened with Alex. Well, she knew the results, she knew why, but she needed more. And she only had one chance.

Her words had got his full attention, however. Excellent. She was deliberately slow, letting Sherlock see how she shifted her aim from John’s head to his upper forearm.

“Now, _this_ is surgery!” She said.

 There was a split second where she was sure that John would move, which would be an utterly stupid idea on his part and she saw Sherlock tense behind the Plexiglas wall because he must be thinking the same.

How fucking ironic was that Sherlock and she could think so alike most of the times? If Sherlock hadn’t shot Alex their paths would never have crossed. She would have done everything in her power to stay the hell away from that man, his brother and the world of troubles their existence brought forth.

 But that? _That_ was the look she had wanted to see in Sherlock’s eyes since the beginning: helplessness, knowing that there was nothing he could do or say to save the man he loved. He could just _wait._

Every sacrifice the man had made, every lie he had told to protect John, every person he had killed while he was away to make sure that the people he loved kept living had brought them both to that moment.

Everything he had done – had been for nought.

It only took one bullet. She had not lied: a person could only be killed once, but if one was good the agony could last a very long time.

And she was very good at that.

She pulled the trigger.

  

* * *

 

 

It had almost happened in slow motion, for the second time in his life Sherlock had experienced what people meant when they talked about time slowing down. He had seen with perfect clarity Mary’s finger on the trigger, how her hand had been steady, he had had time to see the pattern the droplets of blood on her hand, old and new; the Russian man and John’s, when they had fought.

He had also seen Mary, _really_ seen her, for the first time without her many masks, her lies, her deceits, her hunger and greed to keep the game going, to play God with their lives. He had seen the core of her: the woman who had grieved, who was still grieving, who could have hunted him down and kill him but had chosen not to because it would not end her grief. It would not make things better. It would end things too soon for him.

He had seen how John had not moved a muscle, even as he must have felt her movements, how he had not said a word, how his gaze had fixed on his – how he had still believed in him, even if he could not do a single thing to help him, to avoid Mary pulling the trigger

Mary didn’t need to talk, to explain. Not really. And he didn’t even need to go to his mind palace to know what was going, what she had done.  

There was no exit wound, he would have heard or seen the bullet in that case. She was right: it _was_ surgery. One single bullet, making its way from the upper forearm to either one of the lungs or the heart, destroying everything in its path.

The wound was _not_ life threatening, not if John were brought to the A&E straight away – and that was the surgery Mary had mentioned because she would make sure, he saw it clearly in her eyes, that it did not happen. There were people outside, above them, and it still would not be enough.

He could still see Mary firing her gun, over and over, he could still hear the sound the gun had made when the bullet had gone off and the muffled cry John had let out.

John was bleeding and Mary was keeping a strong hold on the back of his neck with one hand, and they were all aware that moving would only make things worse for him while rushes of adrenaline would only accelerate the blood loss.

“Stay put!” He told John and he hated that those were the only words he could tell him. Out of the many words he wished he could speak to the man in front of him, those were the only ones he could utter and they were far too similar to other words he had said, before making the biggest mistake of his life: breaking John’s heart with a magic trick.

John, however, nodded his head and he wished, more than he ever had in his life, that he could not deduce so much – that he did know every micro expression on the face of the man he loved and what they meant.

 “Why am I still here?” He asked, forcing himself to stop looking at John, to focus on Mary, instead.

“Not a – “Mary started.

 “Oh, please – you won!” He said and he did not like the sound of his voice or how difficult it had become to move, to keep his eyes on her. He finally noticed that his vision was blurring and it was not due to blood loss. He was only too familiar with the feeling, and that was definitely different.

Right, the knife. Anaesthetic or poison? He had not even thought about checking the blade; how melodramatic of Mary, truly! And how utterly stupid of him!

 He cast a glance at John, he couldn’t help it, and he noticed how pale he was, he was keeping his eyes fixed on the tv monitor where his daughter was now awake and crying, even if there was no audio feed, only video.

“I am aware of that,” Mary said, and he snapped his attention on her. He had to focus, to concentrate, John’s life depended on it.

“What do you want?” He asked.

“We don’t have much time,” Mary replied, stating the obvious, which was something she never did. Of course, she was making sure that things went her way, even now. Whatever she had in mind, she did not care that help was on the way, that it was a matter of minutes before they were found.

Oh, no. She was counting on that. It was exactly what she was waiting for.

“Is there a bomb here?” He asked. There was nothing in his surroundings that even suggested that, it was a testament to how good Mary was that he was voicing aloud such thoughts.

It happened very quickly, Mary rolled her eyes at his words and pistol-whipped John; he clearly heard the noise of John’s skull cracking and he saw him fall, face down, on the floor, unmoving.

He could block out dread, fear, anger – he was good at that, it was second nature to him, even now that John was, more than ever, everything to him. He felt calm – and he hated himself for that. John deserved more. He himself deserved more.

“Sherlock –“– “Mary sighed, “didn’t you listen to what I told John? You really think I need a bomb to destroy you?”

John was unconscious – or he was doing a remarkable impression of it, so much that Mary moved, taking a step toward the glass.

“You proved your point, but you still have not answered my question: what do you want?” He asked because there had to be something she wanted. She had waited too long to just have him in a Plexiglas cell watching her shooting John.

“Good question,” Mary said. She looked pale, she was obviously in a great deal of pain and the happiness he had clearly read in her eyes had been replaced by weariness.

She had dedicated the last few years of her life to achieve a goal, to seek revenge, to make him pay – but one should always be careful what they wished for.

He should know.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He had missed that; not risking his life, of course, he had not missed the lack of sleep or the jet lag, or even getting as close to torturing a human being to get information while still being within the law.

Information that had been given far too easily for his liking.

No. He surely had not missed those things, but the Kevlar vest he was wearing was familiar, and so was the gun he was holding in his hand. He had slipped into an easy rhythm right away, muscle memory doing a remarkable job, even if he did not know the other people part of the team, except Detective Inspector Lestrade (what the hell was he doing there anyway? He very much doubted Scotland Yard was in any way part of that operation. Was he there for personal reasons?) and the two agents who had been Sherlock’s protection detail  for the past few weeks.

 Did Mycroft Holmes require him back in London for that purpose? Did he choose a retired MI6 operative because of his personal involvement in what was happening? Were there ulterior motives? He didn’t know and at that point, he couldn’t say that he particularly cared. All he knew was that Joan was safe and she was to remain safe.

He also sort of understood why Holmes couldn’t trust anyone at the moment: it still wasn’t clear how Sidirov’s records had disappeared, there could possibly be a breach in security and there hadn’t been enough time to investigate on that.

He was sure there were people digging through files in that moment, trying to find out who the mole was if there was one, but retrieving Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and the baby, apprehending Mary Morstan was the priority at the moment.

He had been part of plenty of similar operations in the past, but he didn’t remember the presence of someone so high up in the chain of command in them and yet Mycroft Holmes had just entered the house.

The current operation was, of course, peculiar to its nature and extremely personal for that man and not only because his brother was in the hands of a very dangerous woman, but also because she had played two of the most intelligent men in the world for fools.

It was personal – for all of them.

An operative was next to Mycroft Holmes, as protection, he suspected, not that it would have made a whole lot of difference if the house had been booby trapped.

It wasn’t, according to the first men who had got in there.

Mary Morstan had known they would come. Oh, no – she had all but told them the address, and he could see the same kind of worry etched on the faces of all his colleagues: that was too bloody _easy_!

Mary Morstan (or whichever her real name was; since no one seemed to know) was sacrificing men, supposedly her own men, as cannon fodder, while waiting for them to find her.

Why?

It was entirely possible that Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and his new-born daughter were already dead, he knew that it was on the mind of all the people searching the house, but they had all been in that business too long to voice such thoughts. They had a mission to accomplish, the outcome was something they would deal with later.

It was a big house, and he very much doubted it had been bought with the purpose of turning it into a paramilitary compound; in fact, he could see that adjustments had been made through the years to turn it into such a building. He did not have the legendary deductive skills Sherlock Holmes was famous for, but details were important in his job, they could make the difference between living or dying, therefore, he had noticed that some renovations were pretty recent, while parts of the original house still stood.

He didn’t like the fact that it felt like he had never really left his job, that the past few years as a teacher felt like they had been a sabbatical. He clenched his jaws, chiding himself for the distraction: that was neither the moment nor the place to muse over his life choices.

It was clear that many people had lived in that house, they had also found both the room where Victor Trevor had been held and the one where his fingers had been chopped off.

He knew that the house would be searched from top to bottom, after. He knew Mycroft Holmes was on the prowl and that house, bought _years_ before Sherlock faked his suicide would be his starting point.

There were no signs of Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and the baby. The men captured weren’t talking and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running out of time, that Mary Morstan hadn’t played the game only to be beaten at the last moment.

There was static in his ear for a moment, he had almost forgotten he had that bloody earpiece on, he was on the first floor with other operatives; the voice, one of the men Mycroft Holmes had handpicked for that mission, told them that there was a cellar, even if it did not appear in the blueprints of the house.

 Finding the house had not been hard – and it was something that still didn’t sit right with him - most of the documentation surrounding it, however, had disappeared, probably the same way the records on Sidorov had. They had left them enough to find the place, but not much more.

Who the hell were those people?

He exchanged a glance with one of the operatives and with Detective Inspector Lestrade and clearly heard the latter mumbling something about being tired of fucking basements.

The adrenaline flowing through his veins was making every detail, every sound and movement even clearer. The orders had been very clear: they were not, unless absolutely necessary, to neutralize Mary Morstan: they needed her alive.

First, however, they had to find the cellar.

  

* * *

 

 

She knew exactly how long it would take now. The frantic voice in her earpiece had warned her. With a sigh, she took the earpiece off, noticing the lack of surprise on Sherlock’s face. John was still unconscious, bleeding both from the head and the arm. The bullet was making its way into either one of the lungs or the heart. She wasn’t truly picky, not at that point.

She had imagined that moment would bring her either closure or some sort of satisfaction. Mr Neal had once asked her what exactly her plans were once she had Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. She had said something about pain, blood and death. He had not believed her but had not said anything on the matter either. 

She had done her job, she had gone above and beyond the line of duty – and that was what she had asked in return. Mr Neal had known better than trying to talk her out of her plans. She doubted he even cared, as long as she didn’t sell him out, which was out of the question and they both knew that.

“Did he say anything?” She asked. Her accent had slipped, again – well, it was too late to do anything about it, besides, the time for charades was over.

Sherlock was still standing, even if it was clear that it was just his stubbornness that was keeping him from sliding to the floor. She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t care less, but she didn’t. She had watched him falling apart for years, it was a hard habit to break, after all.

Sherlock blinked his eyes and there was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice when he asked, “Would it make any difference?”

No. It wouldn’t. But after so long spent being rational and keeping up a facade she didn’t care, she wanted answers.

The only thing she still cared about was knowing, and she was acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock could use that to his own advantage, to buy time, to deny her the only thing she wanted, to have some payback.

Yes, payback was a bitch. She should know.

“Not really. Humour me.” She said.

He scoffed at her words and shook his head. “Does your boss know about your plan?” He asked.

She shrugged. “Do you?”

“It’s transparent, Mary.” He replied. He wasn’t fibbing, he even smiled and said, “I’m not _that_ slow.”

No, he wasn’t – sentiment, however, blindsided him constantly, it had since the beginning.

“Answer my question.” She said.

 In the end, that was the only thing that mattered to her. Sherlock was – the last connection she had to Alex. She had imagined asking that question in a lot of ways, usually with Sherlock Holmes dying, with a lot more of blood and screams. She had not imagined the silence in that room, dotted by the sounds coming from upstairs: men looking everywhere for the cellar, all of them armed, all of them with a specific goal.

“He looked around,” Sherlock said, “there were three possible ways out, your – _husband_?” He paused, gauging her reaction to his words, waiting for confirmation, and she obliged and nodded her head.

They had never worn rings, it had been too risky, besides – rings could be lost, the tattoos would never go anywhere. He had called her every day, just to hear her voice, they had travelled half the world to spend minutes together – and in the end, a posh bastard who wasn’t even connected with their past had wasted him.

“He only saw two of them,” Sherlock continued, “but he chose not to do anything.”

She nodded. She had been in the place where Alex had been found, she had analysed the data at hand, just like she used to do many lifetimes before, she had been detached (numb) and had observed everything clinically; she had seen how things might have gone and what must have happened in reality – but in the end, what Sherlock was saying was the truth: her husband had chosen not to do anything.

“I deduced that he had personal reasons for his choice,” Sherlock said. He was afraid, it was clear in his voice, in the posture of his body. Of course, he was not afraid for himself – he had never been, not even while he had been with Herman and the creep had carved him up, had Sherlock feared for his life. She had succeeded in making him doubt himself, even his mind, but even now, she couldn’t make him afraid for his own life. 

As ever, he feared for John – and for the baby, perhaps.

John was still unconscious or was waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack her, again. Who knew. Who the fuck cared.

“Go on – “She said.  He had said her plan was transparent, but he still feared her reaction, he still feared that she would shoot John to the head like he had killed Alex.

Perhaps, she would have, at the beginning. Besides, she had not lied: that bullet wound _was_ surgery.

“You know what happened, hence the last few years of our lives,” Sherlock said. He was leaning against the glass, now. She had to give credit to him: he was a stubborn bastard; his willpower was remarkable.

“I wasn’t there, you were.” She said.

Sherlock was clearly pondering her words, his eyes fixed on John, she saw something flickering in his eyes, perhaps he thought about negotiating for a moment, but decided against it.

“Sherlock – “She said, “you can’t bullshit your way out of here.”

“Oh, I’m aware of that, Mary!” Sherlock said. And she knew he was, he had a lot of questions he wanted to be answered, she could see it in his eyes, but he also knew he wouldn’t get them. It was her turn to ask questions, and the timeline was kind of tight. She couldn’t hear gunshots any longer and she knew it wouldn’t take long until they found the cellar.

“Then keep talking!” She said.

“No,” Sherlock answered. He could barely stand, but for the first time since they had met in that restaurant, she saw the man of the many tales she had read on the internet, the man he had read about on John’s blog and in his journal: pages upon pages about someone bigger than life, who shone brighter than the sun – even if the real thing had been different, in her experience. When she had finally met Sherlock, she had only seen a damaged man, someone who was clearly uncomfortable in his own skin. 

But was he fibbing, now? She couldn’t tell, which surprised her. Sherlock had always been an open book to her: his weaknesses badly concealed under layers of bad social skills and emotional baggage that had been there probably long before he wasted Alex or played the martyr for his friends.

She cocked her gun and pointed it at John’s prone form on the floor aiming at the back of his head and said, “Keep talking.”

“You won’t kill him, that’s not your plan,” Sherlock said. She wondered whether he realised or cared about how un-Sherlock he sounded or looked: how much his voice was wavering, how much weight he had lost, how haunted his eyes looked; that was mostly her doing.

She let out a snort, she couldn’t help it, “After everything you still think I’ll play fair?” She asked.

“Did you ever?” He shot back. It was a genuine question, a loaded one. Did he want to know whether she had ever cared about John? Or the baby? Did he want to know how wrong he had been in reading her?

Or was he just referring to the plan?

“You’re right about the plan – but I’m good at improvising.” She replied, aware that she had not answered his question, not really. And he noticed right away.

“You are good at a lot of things, I’ll give you that.” He replied.

Finally! There wasn’t an ounce of pretending in his voice, now: no small talk, no talking between the lines like they had done since she had shot him and he truly had thought that she wouldn’t see right through John’s abysmal charade.

At long last, the truth.

“Did he say anything?” She asked. 

If Alex were still there, he would tell her to stop fucking around and save herself. Alex would – have hunted Sherlock down while he was alone and defenceless and played bait constantly.

Alex was dead, however – Sherlock Holmes had killed him, and that was the reality she was in, not some makeup world where Alex was alive and was telling her to get the fuck out of there (as if it was still possible) and save herself.

“Did he say anything?” She repeated. 

Sherlock’s lips were far too pale a detached part of herself noticed; his pupils were dilated, but there was also a steely resolve in his eyes.

“I’m still curious about Moriarty’s message on New Year’s Eve...” Sherlock said, finally sliding to the floor.

No more lies and pretences. It was about time.

“Seriously?” She asked. Squatting down to be at eye level with him was out of the

question: John might be awake and she knew that he was stupid enough to try and take her down, even while handcuffed and with a bullet in his body, furthermore pain was starting to be a nuisance, so she did not move, her gun was still pointed at John’s prone form on the floor, her eyes fixed on Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded before saying, “John will be dead within the hour if he is not brought to the A&E, the bleeding on my side isn’t stopping and I suspect there was something on the knife –  and I know what you have in mind, so indulge me. Or I will not say a word...”

He was right on almost all counts. And she hated that the bastard had somehow managed to flip the tables. She hated that she would have to give him that satisfaction. Sherlock smiled, he actually smiled at her and said, “You better than anyone should know that you ought not to pressure someone who has nothing left to lose.”

“You are forgetting something,” Mary said.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow when she did not add anything more and she said, “John’s daughter.”

The baby had truly been Mr Neal’s idea. Mr Neal _never_ gave her orders, but his suggestions rationally explained to her, always ended up being followed. The baby had been the ultimate insurance in case Sherlock and John stuck their heads out of their asses and stopped being either in denial about their feelings or being too insecure and self-sacrificing to act on them before the wedding could take place.

It had worked, of course. Mr Neal’s plans rarely failed and good red wine, unspoken attraction, denial, being in the closet and guilty conscience could work magic.

Sherlock let out a soundless chuckle at her words: oh, he _was_ afraid for the baby (she did not even have a name, she had looked at her once, she was _not_ her daughter, she was a means to an end – she kept telling herself that, but her breasts ached, part of her – was grieving and she was so fucking tired of grieving!), but that would not stop him.

Oh, yes. He knew.

“Jim Moriarty’s message.” Sherlock only said.

She shrugged and said, “Fine! It wasn’t my idea, I have no clue about how it was done, so don’t even bother asking. I was in too deep and I saw the message when everyone did.”

It was the truth. She had no idea about how Mr Neal had pulled it off, she had not asked, there hadn’t really been any time to. She had just had the chance to send out the message that they needed something to keep Sherlock in London, she had never even got the reply.

“What did he say?” She asked, not giving Sherlock the time to say anything, to consider her answer.

“He let two operatives take him, in the end,” Sherlock replied.

That was not what she had asked. Or was it?

John was still unconscious – or he was pretending to be, she was tempted to shoot him, right then, just so that Sherlock would pay attention and answer her question.

“And when was that?” She asked, instead.

She saw that Sherlock was looking at John’s prone form on the floor.

“What?” She asked, “Afraid of what John will think of you?”

 She wasn’t deaf, the gunshots had stopped, the people outside must be searching for the cellar, they must be searching the house, they probably had already disposed of the men or made them talk.

 And Sherlock knew that as well, he was probably calculating how long it would be until they found them and what John’s chances were. He looked at her and she saw pure hatred in his eyes: visceral and completely irrational, it was a far cry from the indifference he usually showed to his enemies. She had watched the tape of his time with Herman, and Sherlock had not had that look in his eyes. Well, that was what she had wanted all along, wasn’t it?

“John?” She asked, “You awake?”

She heard a grunt, she looked at Sherlock and said, “He’s listening.”

Sherlock tilted his head back, leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and mumbled, “Poison or anaesthetic?”

“I would never off _you_ with poison.” She replied. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded his head, “He had slipped me the keys for the handcuffs,”

“That is _not_ what I asked!” Mary said.

Sherlock opened his eyes, his voice was soft, but the look in his eyes was cold, and she knew he had had the same look in his eyes before he had killed the men who had taken the blonde doctor (Joan? Jane?), she had seen the videos.

“How are you feeling, Mary?” He asked, instead.

She blinked. She had not expected _that._

“When I came back – after it was over, I needed to breathe London in, I needed to feel it. She hadn’t changed, unlike everything else in my life. I couldn’t see that, is it the same for you?”

“It’s not over, yet.” She said. 

Sherlock let out a sound, a very good impression of an exasperated sigh, “I thought we were past lying. And you don’t strike me as someone who lies to herself.”

“Keep talking,” Mary said.

Sherlock did.

 

* * *

 

 

He had been assured there were no bombs on the premises; there weren’t toxic gases or traps of any kind. He realised his presence was not only not required, but potentially detrimental to the mission.

Mycroft Holmes had to be there, however. Leg work was and had never been his milieu, but there were exceptions and they usually involved his brother.

On the way to that elegant three-storeys house he had recalled with extreme clarity how Mary had stood by his side, on a Tarmac, how she had looked like the picture of perfect innocence: the devoted wife, the friend who had kissed his brother and had hugged him while being aware that he was going to his death.

He had known she had shot Sherlock, he had read and immediately dismissed the contents of the USB drive and yet, for the briefest moment, he had to admit that she had almost fooled him. At the time, he had not known the extent of her duplicity, but her façade had been remarkable.

 He had been played, his brother had been pervasively weakened and he needed to be there when they apprehended Mary. He was under no delusions that Mary Morstan would do her utmost not to be caught alive despite the strict orders he had given; he was also aware of the fact that even if they caught her alive, she would never talk. She would never betray the person she was working for.

She also had leverage, one that would be exploited and he already knew that both Sherlock and John would fall for yet another trap, they would be forced to intercede for her.

They would because they had looked everywhere and there was no sign of John’s daughter in the house. She had been there, but evidently, Mary and her cronies had timed their arrival for _after_ the baby was taken away.

“Sir,” One of the men said, “we have located the cellar.”

 

* * *

 

She had just opened his cage. He would have rolled his eyes at that puerile, petty trick if only moving hadn’t become so hard. John was awake, he had tilted his head on a side and he had seen how much pain that gesture had caused him; it was clear he had a concussion and the bullet was slowly but surely making its way through his body, but he had not given up.

“I knew that they had not checked the car, the driver was a moron – your husband did not have the chance to, he had been inside the building with me. He was supposed to intervene if things got out of hand.” He said.

He had gone over the events of that night a lot of times, especially for the past few weeks. The truth was that even if Mary’s husband had intervened sooner, the plan wouldn’t have changed. 

 She was close, now. The door was open and perhaps he understood her more than he ever did: having the object of one’s heartbreak and pain so close without being able to touch or do anything about it was – maddening.

John had his hands handcuffed behind his back, each movement could further the damage the bullet was doing, speed up the process, Mary was still holding her gun in her hand – and it was the end of the road. He could hear Mycroft’s men working, tearing down walls and so could Mary.

 She was looking at him and he could see that it wouldn’t be long until her own pain would become too hard to bear even for her.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Mary asked wearily.

“We are here because of Brian Cooper, it’s always been about him.” He said. He had no idea what kind of drug had been used in conjunction to the pills he had taken in Mary’s bedroom, but it was working. He could not move, it didn’t matter how hard he tried.

“It was not his real name. His name was Alex.” Mary whispered.

His lips curled in a smile; “I don’t suppose you will tell me your real name either.”

Mary shook her head, “Nope.” She said. She sounded exhausted.

“You should sit down.” He said.

She shook her head, “Not gonna happen. What did he say?”

He blinked. There was a note of authentic urgency and fear in her voice, her eyes were dry. Funny, her eyes had welled up when she had shot him, she had cried in his sitting room when she had given the USB drive to John – but now that she was herself, that she was not lying, she wasn’t crying.

She rested her open palm against the glass, she was bleeding, her trousers were soaked with blood, she had given birth – and her body was reminding her of that.

He tilted his head up and looked at the video feed, it had gone dark, when had it happened? How had he not noticed?

“Sherlock, I want you to understand this: you are not winning this, one way or another. Get that?” Mary said.

“I know,” Sherlock said.

He was aware: he could not win; perhaps, if they were lucky, Mycroft’s men would get there in time and save John’s life (what on Earth were they waiting for? It was a bloody cellar!), but he would not win. The scene had been set and the curtain had risen a long time before, he had played without knowing the rules, the facts – he still did not know all the players and their plans.

“Did he say anything?” She asked, again. That was the only thing she had asked, and he couldn’t believe that she had set up that scene, had left breadcrumbs in her fake execution video only to know what her husband had said before dying.

No. That was not true, actually. He could believe that, but there was still something he was missing.

Oh, well – he thought as he finally, finally heard the explosion: he would find out soon, he supposed.

“Nothing.” He said, “He didn’t say anything.”

“You are lying.” She said, completely unperturbed by the deafening noise that seemed to fill every empty space in the room.

They were coming – and Mary still didn’t care.

“Yes.” He said.

He smiled.

* * *

 

Sherlock was smiling. No, he was smirking, actually. He was on the floor, his back against one of the Plexiglas walls, he was still bleeding, he could see the pool of blood that had formed on the floor. Had he nicked another capillary?  And why wasn’t he moving? He recognised that smirk, however, it was the moment when Sherlock’s mind was galaxies ahead anyone’s else when the picture was crystal clear for him and he knew how to beat his enemy.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying and, truth be told, he was having troubles focusing on the images as well; he felt like his head was about to split in two and he was taking deep breaths through his nose, fighting nausea.

He had a concussion, possibly worse, but he was lucid enough to move slowly.

Mary was angry, she had been remarkably calm – hell, she had been cold and calculating for years: she had fooled them all, even after she shot Sherlock, but now that explosives were being used and he was pretty sure he was hearing voices, now that it was almost over – she was angry.

And Sherlock was not moving, but he didn’t seem worried; he was in control: completely and fully. And Mary did not expect that.

He should get up, he should move, he really should: Mary had had the upper hand with him earlier because he had been an idiot, he had let his anger get the best of him, but now _she_ was angry, _she_ was weaker – the few hits he had managed to land had worked, apparently.

“John – “Sherlock said, “don’t move. It’s almost over.”

He froze. Did he really think that Sherlock had not been aware of his movements? That even now he wasn’t doing everything he could to protect him?

“Listen to him, sweetheart. You have done enough -” Mary said. She didn’t turn, she didn’t even look at him, but she pointed the gun she had been holding at Sherlock.

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed, “don’t start bluffing now. How does it feel Mary? Being so close to what you want and know that you are not going to get it?”

“You tell me,” Mary replied.

He moved, but Sherlock cut him off with a curt, “John, don’t move!”

 He wasn’t even looking at him, his eyes were fixed on Mary’s face, and he was still smiling, still challenging the woman who was aiming her gun at him with that smug smirk.

Facts. He needed to focus – he needed to help Sherlock, he couldn’t stand by and watch _again_ as he chose again for both of them.

Facts: Sherlock had knifed himself on the side, he was bleeding – and he couldn’t move, for some reason.

Mary had pistol whipped him, he had been unconscious – and even though there were close he hadn’t been able to hear what they had said.

Facts: Mary was getting weaker, the hand holding the gun was still steady, but she was leaning against the glass.

Mycroft’s men still hadn’t got in the room (it was a cellar, it smelled like one: mould and bleach and fresh paint and mortar.), but it hardly mattered.

There was something – something he was missing, something that did not add up – and it wasn’t the fact that when he had come to the tv screen had flickered off, and he couldn’t see his daughter any longer (he wanted to name her Catherine, he decided. He was sure Sherlock would like that name, or they would choose one together.), it wasn’t the fact that Mary’s trousers were soaked with dark blood, no – it was something else.

Sherlock had knifed himself.

His movements had been almost surgically precise – and then, what happened?

Where was the knife? He couldn’t see it on the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

All the exits were covered, the men had been all disposed of one way or another; there hadn’t been many casualties among the operatives of that mission – which was good since far too many people had died or been hurt because of Mary Morstan and her cronies.

Getting to the cellar was taking time and he could spot anticipation in the eyes of the other men who had already got in the room: Drake and Harris,  who had shadowed Sherlock Holmes and John Watson since his stay at the hospital (ever since Joan had been retrieved he had learned far more than he had ever wanted to know about what had happened to Sherlock at the hands of Herman Bennett), Detective Inspector Lestrade, and two other operatives who were in the process of getting the steel door open.

Mycroft Holmes would get in the room only when it would be deemed safe. He had no doubts he would want to get in the cellar with them.

He still couldn’t ignore the gut feeling that it was too easy: for all he knew the cellar could be wrapped in Semtex or they could be gassed out of existence as soon as they got that door open.

And yet, somehow, he knew the cellar would not be booby trapped, and there would be no tricks. Not for them. Not deadly in the immediate, at least.

“Situation?” Mycroft Holmes’ voice came through the earpiece, loud and clear.

One of Holmes’ men updated him: there were three people in the cellar (was one of them Gavril Sidorov? Because the bastard wasn’t anywhere else in the house); apparently, there were no explosives – they only needed Holmes’ word and _Emily_ was a go.

How on Earth did they even have time to come up with a code name to that mission?

The door had a digital pad, they either needed to bypass the code or they could blow the door up. It was up to Mycroft Holmes to decide. 

 _Emily_ was a go. Mary Morstan needed to be caught alive. If Sherlock, John and the baby were dead, he would witness the start of a war: Mycroft Holmes would move heaven and hell themselves to get (retribution) justice. He would be caught in the crossfire, he would be used – and so would all the people in the room with him. So would. Joan.

Did they know? Did they realise?

It took only a look at Detective Inspector Lestrade and the two men who had been assigned to Sherlock and John’s protection to get that they did, possibly even more than he did. He was not a friend of Sherlock’s. He had not watched over him 24/7 for weeks, he was not his brother.

He just shared part of his name with Sherlock Holmes – and had been chosen for some reason for that game by a Russian man he had met for a few minutes years before.

Bypass the code or blowing up the door, either way, they were getting in.

Holmes chose explosives. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him.

It would either be the end of it all – or the beginning of a war. Either way, he was ready. They all were.

 

* * *

 

 

She had to know about the knife. There was no way she had not noticed; even now, especially now. He could hear movement outside – and so could Mary, it really wouldn’t be long now. And she still didn’t care.

It was not a matter of buying time any longer, or even, God forgave him, protecting John.

No.

It was not the game, or the war – or the scars he had on his torso and the fact that they had been Mary’s idea. It ran deeper than that.

It was the hopes he had dashed, the hours spent in the dark, the nightmares, the feeling of being an impostor, a fraud, someone who had replaced the man who had left London the day after his own funeral, after hearing John’s words.

_One more miracle._

It was not about revenge, it was not about John. It was about him: who he used to be, who Mary had turned him into – who he wanted to be. Who he needed to be.

Mary’s plan had been excellent. She had been a masterful player, but human error, the variables she had triggered had been too far reaching for her to see them all. He had not seen, but she had been blind as well.

The only difference between them was that she did not care about living or dying.

He did.

Mary smiled and his suspicions were confirmed when she said, “Drop that knife, Sherlock.”

“Or what?” He asked. It was a matter of seconds, now.

He wasn’t sure whether Mary realised how transparent she was, now. Did her boss suspect? Had they planned that scenario together?

No. It was too inarticulate, too filled with sentiment. That was Mary’s idea. It had to be.

“Big brother can’t help you,” Mary said.

“You already said that. Stop boring me! I killed your husband, Mary: two agents forced him to his knees after he understood there was no way out – I knew he wouldn’t sell me out, I knew he didn’t care about me or about Moriarty, but I shot him anyway. I had to.”

No reaction. Had he said those words an hour, a week, a month earlier the result would have been vastly different. Was it why her eyes had welled up with tears the night she had shot him? Had it been happiness or regret because she couldn’t have him locked up in a cell and have her wish fulfilment?

Her hand was still holding steadily the gun, her eyes were still dry, she had only grown paler. She moved and got inside the cell; he could smell her blood and his own.  Perhaps, that was what she really wanted: the two of them bleeding out together. She had deconstructed him: if Moriarty had wanted to burn the heart out of him, Mary had succeeded in ripping it out of him and hold it in her hands. True, all true -  but he had broken her before they even met.

John was trying to get on his knees, and he could not afford to call out his name, not now. John – his John, had been used as a pawn in that game, and it was his own fault – but that could not be his fight. He would not allow that to happen. Round and round he went – but the core never changed: he would always try and protect John, even from himself.

“Lock the cell.” He said, “I’ll tell you everything you want to know about your husband.”

Mary didn’t turn, she weakly smiled and said, “He’s trying to get here, isn’t he?  That’s our John: always a day late and a dollar short.”

“They’re getting in – I estimate it will happen in less than a minute. Lock us in!” He said.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed when Mary used the remote to shut the door of his cell.

It was not about being merciful, it was not about John, Mycroft, Mary’s husband or even the American man.

It was about the two of them; it had always been.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 She would have liked to have _that_ man as an opponent; it would have been interesting – it would have been different, that was for sure.  Sherlock had told her not to pressure someone who had nothing left to lose.

How did it happen that she was the one who had something at stake? When did things get out of hand?

How didn’t she notice?

“I hated it,” Sherlock said. She blinked her eyes in confusion. What was he talking about?

Sherlock let go of the knife he had been hiding and said, “I asked you how does it feel to be so close to what you wanted, knowing that you would not get it.”

“Right – “Mary said.

“I hated it.” Sherlock repeated, “You won.”

She had. Sherlock knew that she had, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. She realised that she wouldn’t want it any other way.

“And here they come – “Sherlock said closing his eyes, right before the second explosion came. In the end, they had chosen C4: it was quicker that way, she would have done the same. She had chosen that door for that reason, after all.

“How does it feel?” He asked.

Good question: how did it feel? End of the road, after years of planning, of recruiting nutjobs who saw Jim Moriarty as their Messiah, of playing a role within another role and now there was just blood: Sherlock’s, John’s, hers. It could not have gone differently.

“He didn’t say anything.” Sherlock said, “He closed his eyes, they were brown, his shoulders sagged.”

She could see Alex – she had been on the scene, days later, she had walked the perimeter, trying to determine where exactly he had been killed. She could see Alex on his knees, closing his eyes – he had such a knack for thinking on his feet, he had always been good at analysing situations and know what to do.

She walked behind Sherlock, she knew that they would not shoot, they would not try and harm Mycroft Holmes’ brother and she was pretty sure that they had their orders about her too.

“I knew he was protecting someone,” Sherlock said, turning so that he could face her.

She had imagined many ways for those words to be said, especially at the beginning, (because she had known, possibly since she had been on that road, even before she found Alex’s body, in the nick of time before his body was lost in the system), she had thought about the last moments right before things were over and how things would unfold,  but she had not expected the soft tone of Sherlock’s voice, or the fact that despite the fact that he was bleeding out (what the fuck had he done? She had told him not to hit any organ!) from what it was supposed to be just a flesh wound to let the drug on the knife get in his system, he was saner and more in control of his mind and feelings than he had been since the night she had met him in that restaurant.

“Me too.” She said before Sherlock could go on talking.

Funny, she couldn’t hear a single thing and yet she knew there were people outside; if she turned she was sure she might see Mycroft’s men and she knew, without an ounce of doubt, that they were all pointing their weapons at her – and she knew how those sorts of operations went, which weapons were used and what the protocols were.

Sherlock was aware as well; he was also relieved – his John was safe.

“You could have ended this months ago,” Mary said, cocking her gun.

She had expected to string the Holmes brothers along with AGRA, with shreds of truth from her past, meanwhile, there would be other distractions for Sherlock. Mr Neal, however, had always been sure that Sherlock would not allow John Watson’s child to be born in prison.

“I thought he was in love with you,” Sherlock said.

“Sentiment – “She said.

“You should know – “Sherlock said. He closed his eyes.

She did know. And they had company. She moved about in the cell, making sure that Sherlock would always be in the line of fire as well.

Sherlock was still on the floor, it took him some effort to open his eyes and when he did, he focused (or, at least, he tried to) his gaze on a point behind her shoulders, his voice was soothing when he said, “Put that gun down. It’s over – “

He was right about one thing: it was over.

 

* * *

 

 

It hadn’t taken him long to smuggle his way into Baron Maupertius’ ranks, it hadn’t taken him long to be made aware of Sherlock’s whereabouts. He had been on one of the helicopters who had followed Sherlock as he escaped the premises of the compound where he had been held.

He had given the order not to shoot the long-haired man on the run, his Serbian almost perfect, his heartbeat steady, while he already calculated how long it would take before he could go ahead and rescue Sherlock. A team had already been in stand by, waiting for his instructions.

He was not and had never been guided by his instinct – it was a way of existing he frankly could not understand and yet, simmering just beneath the surface of all the things he could analyse and deduce as he climbed down the stairs, there was a _feeling._ It was not the familiar relief mixed with exasperation at Sherlock’s antics. It was not the sight of John Watson bleeding, handcuffed, as he tried to get up from the floor. It wasn’t even the sight of Gavril Sidorov’s body next to him.

It was the room, the cellar converted in a prison: the two Plexiglas cells, the ventilation grids in one of them, the tv sets on the walls.

It was the fact that, as Mr Moore had remarked, more than once, getting the information, they had needed had been too easy, after years of secrecy and planning. It was the fact that although the team he had assembled had been outnumbered and had lacked a cohesive plan, it had not taken them long to subdue the men in that house. It had not taken them long to open the cellar’s door.

Instinct was hardly something he relied on, but when it combined with data and objective facts it left a strange, unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth.

For all intents and purposes Mary Morstan was trapped: yes, she was inside the Plexiglas cell with Sherlock and it would take her a second, even less, to shoot his brother, but that was not what she wanted.

She was – wounded, if his estimations were correct it would not take long until she went into hypovolemic shock; that fact that she was still standing was a testament to her resilience.

She had given birth – but clearly, she had been hit (John, most probably, at least judging by the bruises on the doctor’s face and the bullet on his upper forearm) and it had caused damages.

There was something he was missing, and it took him but a glance at his brother to

understand that he had reached the same conclusion. It was transparent – and it unsettled him, more than he was ready to admit that he could not say what Mary’s plan was. He could not deduce or infer anything, and it was something that he truly was not accustomed to.

They were bringing John out of the cellar, much to his brother’s relief; he was not

forgiven, but even Sherlock knew better than showing _that_ to an armed woman who had run out of options.

But had she? Truly?

“Miss Morstan.” He said. There would be no negotiations, and she clearly wasn’t

interested in them.

“Mr Holmes.” She said. Her aim on Sherlock’s didn’t falter and as he stepped closer, he saw why Sherlock was on the floor.

It was obviously an anaesthetic. The effect was temporary, he presumed, and in conjunction to the pills he had taken hours earlier he clearly had troubles moving, at least judging by the awkward angle of his legs on the floor.

He was also bleeding from his side.

He would not have been surprised had he known how similar his thoughts were to John’s: he was tired of seeing Sherlock’s blood. He truly was. His brother had bled enough because of the woman in front of him. That had been the last time.

Later, he would consider that some of that blood was his responsibility, that he had used his own brother – and brother in law -  as baits and the aftermath would weigh down on him, almost unexpectedly so.

 He had wished to see the real woman behind the façade, and there she was: pale, tired,

heartbroken and hollow. She had done what she had been paid to do, she had played God with his brother’s life, she had fooled him and the fact that it would only take one word from him to have her killed clearly didn’t matter to her. 

Again, that feeling: something was amiss. He had been played again and he could not see how; not yet.

His men were searching the cellar, there would be more light in it soon.

“The tablet on the floor,” Sherlock said. He wasn’t looking at him, he had his eyes closed, his head tilted back, he didn’t need to add more and Mary did not react to his words.

He had dealt with terrorists, criminals, dictators, secret services operatives for most of his adult life and he had always been able to get what he wanted, to understand, to anticipate their moves. He honestly could not tell what Mary wanted.

She wanted to win, of course. She held Sherlock and him responsible for a personal loss and she had been moulded into a weapon. No, she had allowed Jim Moriarty’s successor to use her as a weapon, as a distraction.

She had had hours to kill both Sherlock and John and while they were both wounded, neither of them was in critical condition, neither of them was truly at risk of dying.

Why?

Mr Moore handed him the tablet: it was, of course, password protected. He handed it back to the man and focused his attention on Mary again.

What did she want?

She wanted to exert her power, once more. She wanted to know they had been beaten.

She wanted him to talk, clearly.

“There won’t be any deal, Miss. Morstan.” He said and he felt like he was saying words from a script someone had written from him. It was what she had expected him to say. But he could not, would not ask her what he truly had in mind: what did she want?

“Didn’t ask for one.” She said, “but I have a question.”

He could order to bypass whatever code she had used to lock the door of that cell and have her retrieved; she would shoot Sherlock, of course, and if he were truly the Ice Man Moriarty had thought he was; if he were the rubbish big brother Sherlock believed him to be he would. One life versus the many Mary had taken, one life versus the knowledge she had that could help him to stop Moriarty’s replacement.

“Answer and I’ll open the door – you can have your brother and try and interrogate me.” She said.

Sherlock opened his eyes. Mary’s words had caught his attention. His brother looked at him, for the first time since he had entered that room and yes, there was contempt, there were loathing and anger, but his mind, unlike his body, was working properly. Sherlock was aware of things he wasn’t, he had more data, he had spent time with that woman – and didn’t look particularly surprised by her words. He did look worried, however.

“Open the door and I shall consider it,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock smiled, but there was still an edge of worry in his features. He wasn’t worried about himself, but he seldom was; he wasn’t worried about John, there was something else.

Of course.

John’s daughter. Clearly.

He took a step back, perfectly aware that he was doing exactly what Mary had in mind. Mary – or the person who had manoeuvred her for years.

Mary did not expect to get out of that room alive. He would hate to defy her expectations, now. If she wanted to play the game he would let her win.

It was an acceptable loss, all things considered. One look at Mary had confirmed what he had already suspected: she could not be swayed, she could not be coerced into talking, she could not be bought. She had no requests, nothing to bargain with, nothing to live for.

Nicely played, indeed.

He turned, and he saw the smirk on the woman’s face and the realization set in his brother’s eyes.

 “Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

“Do shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

He was responsible for many people’s death. One or two more would not make a lot of difference in the grand scheme of things.

It took one look at agent Drake – a man he had personally chosen to protect Sherlock when the new players had finally revealed themselves through Herman Bennett – and the man knew exactly what he had to do.

It was then that Mary unlocked the door.

And she played them, once again.

 

* * *

 

Jim Moriarty was dancing behind Mycroft, that was how he knew that the feeble tether to consciousness was fading. Mary had unlocked the door and his brother was an idiot.

Jim Moriarty was looking around, making faces at the men in the room; he knew some of them: agent Drake, William Moore (he was enjoying that moment far too much, he had clearly missed his old job), he mimed shooting Lestrade and Sherlock blinked.

 _Think_.

He had to think.

_I would never off you with poison._

The stalling – the questions, the mercy Mary had shown not when she had not killed them, that was never her intention; she had just wanted to play God, she had just loved that feeling too much to give up on it.

She had loved her husband, but she loved holding his fate in her hands more. Did she know? Did she realise or did she still think it was all about _sentiment_ for her?

“Could you give me a moment with John?” Moriarty said, “John, John, John. Special John, soldier John, doctor John, addicted to adrenaline and fake sociopaths John. John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusilier.”

“Shut up – “He hissed. Moriarty was behind Mycroft and he had no idea whether he was hallucinating because of the drugs, the blood loss or he had just gone to his mind palace without even noticing.

_Falls the Shadow_

He was home – in his sitting room. He was home and John had gotten married to Mary and he had played the violin with numb fingers and the wall was yet another concrete proof that John was not there with him.

And Mary was there, she was bleeding, she was taking a step back in the dark and he turned and John was there too.

“Ever heard of divide and conquer?” John asked.

He had chosen him. He had – trusted him, again.

“Don’t make me into a hero, I’m the same man who spiked your coffee at Baskerville.” He said.

_I would never off you with poison_

The wallpaper was peeling off, all the wedding planning (he had taken it down, tore the sheets of paper, crumbled them, crushed them under his feet) was bubbling up, it was

decaying before his eyes.

“No, you are not,” John said.

John wasn’t there. Not really. John, however, had been in his mind palace, had prompted him to fight, to run, not to drown so many times.

 _“That was quite merciful of you…”_ Moriarty said.

He turned. Moriarty was inside the Plexiglas cell, in the same spot where he had been when he had uttered those words.

“She didn’t listen to your conversation,” Moriarty said, “are you ever, ever going to learn, Sherlock?”

He sounded disappointed, he walked through the Plexiglas wall, and he was holding the knife in his hand.

“I told you – but you didn’t listen: pain, heartbreak, loss – it's all good,” Moriarty said.

He rolled his eyes. Truly, he had the man’s name carved up in his chest, he had been the ever-present ghost in his life since that day at Bart. He was tired, so very tired of him – of being afraid of him, of his legacy.

_I would never off you with poison._

The guard in Herman Bennett’s block found dead in his bed.

The drugs he had been given – that prickle at the back of his neck, in Bennett’s basement.

He blinked. He was in the Plexiglas cell, again, his eyes fixed on John.

“Mary – could you give us a moment, _please_?” He mouthed, saying the words he had said before.

She stepped back, in the dark.

_I would never off you with poison._

He blinked, again and Mary was in front of him: pale, but she had been pale even before she had started haemorrhaging, hadn’t she? Her pupils? Unequal: one dilated, the other constricted, she had been careful not to get too close, she had learned how to send off hundreds of tells in his presence, none of which was useful.

 He had to narrow it down. All the questions she had asked, the six boxes, how she had provoked John, the earpiece she had taken off, her fake execution.

He blinked his eyes and the Plexiglas walls and the cellar disappeared, they were replaced by a grey sky and a rooftop.

Moriarty was there, but he didn’t matter, he was just part of the scenery, he was there because, apparently, he still couldn’t get rid of him.

“What are the rules of magic tricks, Sherlock?” Moriarty asked. He could hear ‘Stayin’ Alive’ playing on the man’s mobile phone.

“Don’t _ever_ tell the secret,” Moriarty said, taking a step toward him.

He didn’t speak, at first. He didn’t ask any questions, he didn’t need to. He was perfectly aware of where he was, he was aware that what he was seeing was part of himself and there was no time to care.

He listened.

“It would defy the purpose,” He eventually said,

Moriarty nodded, “Hence all the bodies you piled up – you really should have died that day, I told you it would have been easier.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The good thing about the current predicament was that he wasn’t feeling any pain and there was once again structure in his mind palace, there weren’t gaps, schisms, rubble on the floor. It was – _pristine_.

“Do go on.” He said, ignoring Moriarty’s words. Yes, his self-loathing was duly noted, Time to move on!

“Only perform the trick in the perfect situations.” He said.

Like the ledge of a rooftop with a man witnessing his suicide.

Or a cellar with two Plexiglas cells and so much darkness.

“Practice to absolute perfection,” Moriarty said.

He had moved closer to him, he had invaded his personal space, and he truly didn’t care, he could see the answer in the man’s eyes (his dark mirror, the ghost, the criminal whose legacy he had failed to eradicate.).

“Never repeat the trick. The good ones, the ones like you or that wife only can perform once. Because you know Sherlock – you know that it’s not the fall that kills you, the trickiest part, the danger is -”

“The landing…” He whispered.

_I would never off you with poison._

“Oh.” He said.

He had seen the deception, it had been right under his nose all along, he had thought he knew. But he clearly didn’t.

He had thought he had gained an advantage but, apparently, she hadn’t even cared about that. She had wanted answers, that had been personal, but the plan had been already in place.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them he was again, that time for real, in the cell, on the floor. Mary was stepping out of the cell.

“She has poisoned herself.” He said.

Mary turned, she could barely stand – and, perhaps, it hadn’t been John’s well-placed hits that were making her bleed – but there was genuine amusement in her eyes.

“Slow.” She said with a smirk.

“He was thinking about you – “He said, “I didn’t look at him when I shot him, but right before – he was thinking about you. He was devoted to you.”

Mary nodded her head. Two operatives, men he had never seen before, were at her side immediately. She let them take her.

“Where is the baby?” He asked.

Mary didn’t answer.

Mycroft and Lestrade got in the cell; it was Lestrade who helped him up, he noticed splatters of blood on his shirt, visible underneath the Kevlar vest he was wearing, he leaned on him, and the man’s hand went immediately to his side, to put pressure on the wound. Right, he had been unable to.

He did not lean on his brother, but he accepted his presence there.

“The baby is not in the house,” Mycroft said.

_Exceptional magic tricks could only be performed once._

When he finally, after what it felt like hours, he got outside the house, on a gurney, he saw Mary’s body.

John and he were still alive –

then why did he feel like Mary had won anyway?

 


	21. Epilogue: life after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not a case, and they all knew that; it was a war they hadn’t even been aware they were fighting, there had been casualties and it was still ongoing, even if they could not see their opponent.

**One month after Mary’s death**

 

 They were both lucky to be alive. He had been shot before, it had brought him to London, to a life he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep on living and to a park, where he had met an old friend who had introduced him to one Sherlock Holmes.

He still had no idea whether Mary had timed his shooting so that help would arrive in time, or if it had been a mistake on her part. He was lucky to be alive.

He didn’t remember much of the flight in the helicopter to the A&E, it was still a blur, he had not even known about Mary, at the time. Or about his daughter.

 Her name was Catherine. It turned out that Sherlock didn’t have any objection over that name.

“It’s your mother’s name, isn’t it?” He had asked. He had been pale, sitting at his bedside, at the hospital, wearing scrubs himself and there was an IV with blood and God knew what else at his side.

“Yes.” He had said, not even bothering to ask how did he know since he had never told him. He was Sherlock – he was exceptional.

“We will find her, John. I swear.” Sherlock had said that night, when he felt too out of it, too numb to even be afraid or angry or heartbroken to do anything else but nod.

The questions had come, but it had happened later, days later – when he had stopped feeling so bloody weak and numb and his arm had been in a cast and Sherlock could walk and he wasn’t so deathly pale any longer.

Questions: what had he known, what had he suspected, why hadn’t he used the knife on Mary.

Answers: he had known Mary was buying time, he had suspected Catherine was not in the house, he had not used the knife on Mary because of the baby; he had hoped to have information, to understand whether she was close or not.

“I was trying to save Catherine – and us. I couldn’t let her understand that I suspected about her plan, not then.” Sherlock had explained.

He had deceived him, again. He had lied and manipulated him, again.

They had fought: because Sherlock had not hesitated to use that knife on himself, even if he had known that it was useless.

“It got you out of that cell. I only knew Catherine was not in the house when she talked about Bennet.” He had replied.

There had been silences, after – days of silences: he had been angry, he had felt guilty, he had felt used. He was still angry at Sherlock because he had to stop making decisions for both of them. He had to stop _bleeding_ for him. He had to stop thinking that he was expendable.

He wasn’t.

One week after Mary’s death, agent Drake came to their room (Mycroft could not stop being a meddling sod not even when Sherlock refused to even acknowledge his existence), telling them about what they had found in the house.

He had given them the dvds and had cleaned his hands on his trousers after handing them.

As they watched the first video, Mary’s, their shoulders had brushed, by the end of it, they had entwined fingers.

She had said she was not a James Bond villain, but she had left them a tape, telling them why they were still alive.

Catherine was on the second dvd: her birth, the moment where Mary had held her in her arms, and a loop of her either sleeping or crying. It was what they had seen on the screen in the cellar.

Victor Trevor was in one of the videos, and so was Mary’s fake execution and the rehearsals of them.

They never watched the dvd labelled Herman Bennett: the son of a bitch was dead, but he had not been surprised when he had seen the smashed DVD in the bin, the day after.

They had gone back home – both of them weak, with Mrs. Hudson glad to finally be allowed to be home fussing over them, Molly and Lestrade paying daily visits to them and piles of pills on both their nighttables. 

He had not been surprised when Mycroft had called him; Sherlock refused to answer his calls and he had known it was only a matter of time before the elder Holmes would contact him.

The call had been about Mary, about Catherine – and their presence was required. Sherlock had not objected to the meeting, but he had spent part of the night in the sitting room, practicing with his violin (his right hand was finally healed enough to allow him to play and it was a good sign, it had given him _hope_ for the first time since – since Sherlock had flinched on a crime scene).

The conference room they were in that morning was crowded: agents Drake and Harris, two operatives he had never seen before, William Moore, Greg (what the hell?), Anthea, Sherlock and him. There were copies of pictures taken in Mary’s house, after – there were pictures of the people who had been either killed or apprehended since Herman Bennett had taken Sherlock.

The wall he was looking at, sort of reminded him of the wall in their sitting room, except that it was bare now, at home. Sherlock was not bored, he was perfectly content with reading up cold cases and solving them with just a cursory glance at the files.

Sherlock sat, ignoring Mycroft. That was not one of his partner’s epic fits: Sherlock had not forgiven Mycroft, it didn’t matter that he had been aware of the man’s intentions and had agred with him to be used as bait. It didn’t even matter that he had reminded Sherlock that he had used similar tactics, even in the cellar, Sherlock wouldn’t budge.

Nevertheless, he was in that room, and he knew that Sherlock didn’t care about the American man, he didn’t care about the fact that he had successfully taken Jim Moriarty’s place. He was only there for Catherine.

He, on the contrary, was very much curious about the American man who, apparently, had recruited Mary, used her grief and skills to weaken the man he loved and had used him as a pawn in his games.

Sherlock had told him that the American man had promised him a clue in case he survived. It had been a month since that day: Mary was dead and buried, they knew for sure that Catherine was both his daughter and that Mary had lied to him about the date of conception. Mary had looked giddy in the tape as she revealed the details.

 

« _I told you. I was to have the last ecography. You were so distracted that you didn’t stop for a moment and think. Truly a rubbish doctor, sweetheart._ »

 

Mary had lied about the date of conception: Catherine was not born pre-term, and her doctor, a woman he had met, had coincidentally disappeared the day Mary died. Not that it mattered.

Mycroft greeted them with a nod of his head, apparently, he had been waiting for them to start the briefing, or whatever that was.

Mycroft looked tired; while they had spent time in the hospital and later at home, convalescing, while Greg had gone back to his job, William to Joan, Mycroft must have juggled a lot of plates, in addition to his everyday duties.

Yet, when Mycroft mentioned the word taskforce he couldn’t help being surprised.

“We have conducted an extensive investigation and we are reasonably sure that the deletion of files was the result of a hacking attack, nonetheless this is something that requires a certain discretion, it is a matter not only of national security, but of trust, as well.” Mycroft said.

John looked at Sherlock, he had merely raised an eyebrow at his brother’s last word. He was still extremely good, excellent even at hiding what he really felt, but he could spot the tells, and surely so could Mycroft.

“Trust.” William Moore said.

He wasn’t wearing glasses, he was dressed casually, but he now could see clearly what Sherlock had deduced right away the day they had met: the man was a SIS, even if he had retired.

“Of course.” Sherlock said, “All the people in the room have a direct connection with the case.”

 It was not a case, and they all knew that; it was a war they hadn’t even been aware they were fighting, there had been casualties and it was still ongoing, even if they could not see their opponent.

Mycroft went on talking, but John looked at the men and the woman in the room; all but Sherlock were onboard with Mycroft’s plan. Each person had their reasons: but they were all ready to be part of the team that would catch the American man and find Catherine.

Mycroft still had not asked them; even if it was his own daughter that had been taken and Sherlock’s life that had been toyed with.

 

« _“Killing you would end things. You would be at peace, and I swear, you will never be, not if I can help it.”_ »

 

Mary had not smiled as she said those words, she had still been pregnant when she had said those words, he clearly recalled her face in the tape, how cold the look in her eyes had been. Was that the real Mary? Or was it the woman in the cellar? He couldn’t say.

 

« _“How about that, John?”_ »

 

Mary asked in the videotape.

 

« _” Your daughter is lost! The greatest minds you have ever met have either lost her or allowed that to happen.”  She shrugged, “Not a clairvoyant, I don’t know what they’ll do, but whatever happens, your daughter is lost to you._

 _Did you really think that you would have it all? “_ »

 

He clenched his hand, the one not in the cast; she had mocked his devotion to Sherlock in the tape, telling him that she was sure that in the end he would be part of it, that he would lose his own flesh and blood for Sherlock.

He knew Sherlock was looking at him; he knew that he felt responsible for Catherine, but for all they knew his daughter had never even been in that house. After all, it was not the place where Mary had given birth to his daughter.

Sherlock was looking at him because ultimately it would be his choice: Catherine was his daughter and Sherlock had suspected Mary’s play.

He nodded at Sherlock, who then looked at his brother, for the first time since they had got in the room and said, “Consider me part of your _task force_.”

He got up from the chair; his movements were still jerky from time to time; he was getting better with each passing day, but his latest brush with a knife (and it had been far more than a brush, considering how close he had come to bleed to death!) had set things back.

Sherlock left the room, he knew he would wait for him outside, he knew that he probably already had a strategy in mind, and he had promised him, he had given his word that the time for deceits was over. He had even told him about Irene Adler’s involvement and the fact that she was still alive and he had known all along.

“My brother, John, Mr. Moore and Detective Inspector Lestrade will stay here in London; there is much to do, data to examine and analyse,” He said looking at William, “criminal activity to monitor,” He continued while looking at Lestrade, “and people apprehended on the breaking point, who only need a little push to talk.”

He was looking at him – did he expect him to interrogate Mary’s associates? His track record with interrogations was abysmal. But of course, Sherlock would succeed, now that his mind was clear, now that he knew at least some of the players he would know what to do.

He didn’t even notice that all the men had stood up and that Anthea had reprised typing on her mobile, until he heard Mycroft say, “John, a word, please?”

The men took Mycroft’s words as their cue to leave, and John noticed that Greg and Drake were chatting like old friends, and William was typing something on his mobile phone.

Anthea was the last one to get out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving them alone; Mycroft had stood as he talked, he had commanded the space in the room; he had been in the house, in the cellar a month before; he sat and looked at him, and John thought that he should be used to that kind of scrutiny, he thought that Mycroft was probavly deducing everything he needed about his life for the past month, and yet the only words that came out of his mouth were, “I will find your daughter, John.”

He nodded his head. Sherlock had told him what had happened in the cellar after he had been brought away, nevertheless he said, “Her name is Catherine. And I’m sure you will do your best.”

He would, unless finding his daughter clashed with his plans for the American man, _unless_ he decided that losing a child was a small loss in the big scheme of things if she became a bargaining chip.

“I give you my word, John,” Mycroft said, and he sounded absolutely sincere.

Catherine was, in a manner of speaking, his niece. She was one-month old and they had no idea, no clue regarding her whereabouts: CCTV had been useless, the men apprehended didn’t know anything and newborns all looked alike. 

She might still be in London and they wouldn’t know. _He_ wouldn’t know.

Herman Bennett and Mary had both said that _they_ were everywhere, and for all they knew it was true.

Mycroft was still looking at him. He knew he wouldn’t ask about Sherlock, he wouldn’t even ask to intercede on his behalf, and yet what else could warrant his presence there?

“Give him time.” He said.

Mycroft smiled, but shook his head, “I was aware of what the consequences of my actions would be that day, John – and my brother has more pressing matters to attend right now.”

“Does he?” He asked.

“Living his life, healing – unravelling Mary’s web.” Mycroft said, “I also broke his one cardinal rule: I put you at risk.”

“You’re such a twat!” He scoffed.

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft said.

“Tell him you are sorry, you know your brother,” He said, “I think he even forgave Mary… “

“That’s different – “Mycroft said.

“History, I know, you told me once.” He countered.

“Precisely. I made a similar mistake once, I cannot, in good conscience, expect Sherlock to forgive me once more.” Mycroft replied. He smiled again, but it was an insincere one, it was a mask, and he had enough experience with the two men to know when it was the moment to let things slide and when it wasn’t.

He had no idea about what he had just talked about, and he knew that Sherlock was not ready to share, therefore he let Mycroft’s words slide, but had to stifle a snort when the man asked, “Are you part of the task force? You still have not answered.”

“Yeah, I am, it’s my daughter – and I want to bring Mary’s boss down!” He answered.

“We still haven’t uncovered her real name, you know?” Mycroft said.

John got up, he shook Mycroft’s hand, “I don’t care. She is dead,” He paused and asked, “because she is dead, isn’t she? You didn’t hide her somewhere to get her to talk.”

 Mycroft shook his head, “No, I didn’t. She poisoned herself. You watched the tape, didn’t you?”

“You bloody well know that I did!” He replied.

“Prove her wrong. Don’t blame either Sherlock or yourself for what happened. Stop playing her game!” Mycroft said.

Perhaps, Mycroft would not apologise to his brother for a choice they both had made, but he would do everything he could to make sure that Mary would not have her posthumous victory.

He would do everything he could to help his brother. As always.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Two months after Mary’s death.**

 “And then he looked around, he insulted the witness and found the bolthole where the murderer was hiding, meanwhile John was _gloating._ ” He grinned, “He used to at least apologize when Sherlock was a complete arsehole – “

Molly shrugged, and nudged him while they were walking and said, “Someone told me you hid your smile behind your hand.”

Greg Lestrade blinked in surprise: their shoulders were brushing. It was a nice evening, they had had dinner together, the first they had been able to have after the whole nightmare with Mary.

If that was a movie or a show on telly, he would have gone out that house with Sherlock, John and the baby and he would have swept Molly in his arms and finally kissed her.

Things had definitely not been like in a movie: there had been depositions, Sherlock and John had been at the hospital and things with John had been worrying for the first twenty-four hours. There had also been the matter of dealing with Janine Hawkins’ murder, Victor Trevor’s kidnapping and the chaos caused by the explosions.

Molly and him had kept seeing each other for coffee almost every day, they met at Baker Street when they visited Sherlock and John during their convalescence and he drove her home, making small talk, commenting on Sherlock and John’s progresses, watching their world reshape itself after the events started on New Year’s day. Molly and he had been stuck in that sort of bubble, unable to step backward or forward with their relationship, whichever it was: more than friends, but less than lovers.

And yet, when that morning Sherlock had showed up on a crime scene, all fluid movements, cockiness and geniality, with John in tow he had felt happy, lighter and after their murderer had been apprehended he had called Molly and invited her out for dinner.

She had said yes – and he was now just realising that they just had their first date and they were smiling, walking toward his car, and he knew that if he took her hand she would entwine their fingers together.

So, he did.

She was looking at him and she was smiling. He realised that she always smiled when they were together, and come to think of it – the same applied to him.

“It’s good to have him back!” He said.

She entwined her fingers with his like he had thought she would do. She was smiling and she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

It was true – Sherlock could be a complete dick, an arrogant bastard, but he was also one of his closest friends and it was bloody good to see him happy.

They still had not found John’s daughter, the task force Mycroft had put together was working, but life was going on: John had started updating his blog again, Sherlock insulted him via text on a daily basis, and did his part: he interrogated men and went over all the items at their disposal, William Moore was analysing data; he had no idea whether he was back at MI6, but he knew the man had a far higher security clearance than his, and was organizing his wedding to Joan Adams.

 They had slowed their pace, she was brushing the back of his hand with the pad of her thumb, and he was supposed to do something – because things had changed, they were not _mates_ having dinner together, and he had been afraid and stuck in the past for far too long.

They stopped by his car; it was weird, how neither of them had spoken, they had just stopped.

“Listen – William and Joan are getting married next month. You met William, right? I was thinking that I would be, that is, if you want – “He was an idiot, he was babbling; it was Molly and him!

And that was precisely why he couldn’t botch things up and was babbling like a moron!

“Yes,” Molly said.

“You – you actually understood my babbling?” He asked. He couldn’t stop smiling.

“Yes. I would love to go to the wedding with you.” She said.

He moved, and the world kept on turning, it didn't stop as he crossed the line, the one that he had decided was there and was not to mess with a long time before. She did the same.

“Good…” He said.

“Greg?” She asked.

She took another step, and he loved the feeling of her body so close to his; he had danced with her once, but it almost felt like it happened in another life.

“Will you kiss me?” She was whispering, her voice was soft, and she was blushing, but she was far braver than he was.

He grinned.

And she fit perfectly in his arms, but he knew that – he had always known that. She tasted like wine and summer, and when her hands trailed through his hair he realized he had to be the luckiest sod alive.

And life was good. It was like it was supposed to be.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Three months after Mary’s death.**

He had not expected that Sherlock would want to attend William and Joan’s wedding. He had thought he would find some excuse, or just tell William that weddings weren’t his area. Sherlock, however, had accepted the invitation, his only remark had been, “Please, don’t let me wear that _thing_ again.”

It was the first time in months that he had mentioned, even obliquely, Mary – he never did at home. Home was theirs and theirs alone: it didn’t belong to the past, to the mistakes they both had made and the games that had been played.

“I don’t think it will be necessary, love.” He had said.

Joan was still wearing a cast on her right arm, her hands were swollen and there were scars on them, but she had looked radiant and happy as she walked down the aisle.

It had been a lovely ceremony and Sherlock had looked relaxed, content – even during the short words William and Joan had exchanged.

He should have got how not right things had been with Mary when he had not even thought about writing his own vows and neither had the woman he had married.

Sherlock had and he had tried so hard to uphold his vow.

William and Joan however, were not Mary and him: they were in love, there were no shadows between them or secrets, just love.

During the reception, they sat at the same table with Molly, Greg, and some colleagues of William from school, none of which knew that William was working again for the government. Whether he was doing it for money, revenge or because it was the right thing to do the result didn’t change; and Joan burst with pride and love for her new husband.

Agents Drake and Harris were in Ukraine, following paper-thin trails, and John knew that they were doing what Sherlock had done once, what William used to do full time.

Mycroft had not asked Sherlock to leave England so far, and Sherlock was _thriving._ He was better, each day brought forth some improvement: whether it was a whole night without nightmares or the fact that he could move without pain.

Molly and Greg left the table to go dancing and he shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips: Sherlock had commented the recent development with an, “About time.”, apparently, it was something that had been a long time coming. He didn't care when or how it had happened.  He was just happy for his friends.

There. It was not peace because he missed his daughter, he was worried sick about her, he was  afraid of the way she might be used when the American man would finally make a move and keep his promise, but he was living, he was among friends, with the man he loved more than anything, and he had hope.

Mary had not divided them. She had not won, unlike what Sherlock sometimes said, especially in the first days after her death.

“I need some air,” Sherlock said, he brushed his ear with his lips and John started, surprised both by Sherlock’s display of affection in public (he could still be an utter cock when they were not alone, he could be an arsehole, but he would not want him any other way.), and by the warmth of the man’s breath against his skin.

“Ok – I – “He looked at him. Sherlock clearly would not complain if he decided to join him outside.

Sherlock smiled, and it was a true, genuine smile, the one that made him look younger, that took away years of pain and heartbreak from his eyes.

Of course, he followed him outside.

Sherlock sighed in relief as soon as they were in the garden – he had clearly made an effort for William and Joan, in part because he still felt guilty and also because he had once told him that he couldn’t begrudge William for something that he himself would have done.

“Alright?” He asked.

 Sherlock didn’t answer, not right away, they were close, watching the stars – and it was so _bloody_ normal of them, that he understood why Sherlock wasn’t talking.

“I found David Hood’s card in your drawer this morning.” Sherlock smiled and said, “I wasn’t prying, I just needed a pen.”

“I put it on the desk and forgot about it.” He said. It was the truth, he had completely forgotten about it, “We met at the canteen while you were at the hospital.”

Sherlock nodded, “I know,” he said, “I called him. I – “He gritted his teeth, and John suspected that whatever Sherlock was going to tell, it would have something to do with the past few months. “The day you were taken, I thought that if I survived I would consider seeking help. I am, now.” He sighed and said, “How does it work?”

“Are you asking me?” He said.

“You had a therapist,” Sherlock replied.

“Then I met you – and I went back only once, after Barts.” He said, “But it’s good. It can be helpful.”

Sherlock was better, but – it was good that he had called that man. It was a step up, it was progress.

“I’m going tomorrow. I must have deleted my first meeting with him.” Sherlock said and he looked genuinely puzzled by his lack of memories about the man.

John chuckled, “You were an arse.” He said.

Sherlock smiled. “How shocking.”

“He had rubbish timing.” He said.

God, he loved that man. He was – everything: his best friend, his confidante, his lover, his family. He drove him crazy and made him happy.

“John – “Sherlock said, “there is – something I need to tell you, I should have a long time ago, I have wanted to for _ages,_ but I never did.”

“Sherlock – “John trailed.

He had said something similar on New Year's day, before he boarded the plane.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t be an idiot, John, I am not going anywhere!”

It had been a long time since Sherlock had truly insulted him, and he couldn’t help grinning.

“I am in love with you,” Sherlock said. He spoke quickly, but his eyes bore into his and he had thought he was fine, perfectly fine with not hearing Sherlock ever say those words. They had been together for months and he knew, he was only too aware of how loved he was.

Yet, he was smiling like a perfect loon and if they weren’t in public, he would probably kiss him, right there and tell him again how much he loved him. And he knew that they would still probably fight about mundane stuff, but it was good, it was what he had desperately missed even before Mary shot Sherlock.

Sherlock looked around, “Do you think they will notice if we leave?” he said.

John refused to think about the past, about the fact that he had not noticed Sherlock leaving his wedding and only recently had he seen a picture, part of the ones sent to the hospital, taken the night of his wedding to Mary.

He had found the picture in an envelope, buried under a pile of newspapers and a few magazine clippings about bees and apiculture; he had purposefully left the picture atop the pile he had found in the sitting room, he had not asked Sherlock about it, and when the man had noticed, he had not said a word, not at first, only hours later, while they were in bed, did he say, “The details are tedious, John and unimportant.”

He had nodded, placing a kiss against Sherlock’s collarbone, he had not apologised because the time for apologies belonged to the past, but he had kept the picture as a reminder.

“I don’t think they’ll care…” He replied, after a moment of silence, to Sherlock’s question.

Sherlock grinned, and he couldn’t help doing the same and when the man kissed him, in public, for the first time (never mind the fact that there was no one in the garden, that most of the guests were inside) he was sure, positive that Mary had been wrong, because he felt at peace. And in love. And loved beyond measure in return.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said.

“God – yes!” John said against the man’s lips.

 

* * *

 

**Four months after Mary’s death.**

His allies and enemies alike, the ones who met him – and it was not something he allowed it to happen if he could help it, all said that he always kept his promises, but it was hardly a matter of idealism or honor. He was a pragmatist: in his experience, the fact that his word mattered had always been an advantage.

The woman known as Mary Morstan was dead: she had made her choices; he had warned her when part of her past had been uncovered, he had also tried to talk her out of her batshit crazy idea, but she had not relented. Not that he had expected her to.

Mary had done what he had asked her to do, she had made sure that the Holmes brothers were too busy, distracted and weakened when he had needed them to be. She had been an excellent asset, a good partner.

He couldn’t begrudge her for the fact that she had not killed Sherlock Holmes when she had the chance; he had never asked her to and she had never said she would. She had talked about blood and pain, but he had known that when push came to shove, she would choose to play the long game.

  He couldn’t begrudge her for her irrationality since he had used her grief all along and she had allowed him to, she had welcomed it, actually.

 At first, she had not been happy at the idea of having a child with John Watson; he had not known a lot about her life, he had not needed to, he had known, however, that she had had plans to build a family with her husband when he joined her in London.

It had taken him to explain to her why it would be a good thing, why it might become necessary, especially with Charles Augustus Magnussen in the picture.

She had agreed, eventually, but she had had terms – she had asked him to make a promise. She had already sworn up and down that she would never sell him out or betray him, and he had believed her because her personal involvement had made her his best asset. There had also been the fact that she had not enough data about him to say anything of real value, should she have been apprehended.

Only when had she agreed to have a child with John Watson he had been truly sure that she would be loyal until her dying breath, however; they had made a deal: she had expressly asked him to promise her that when it was over, whatever happened to her, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the child would not be theirs.

 “I will make sure that even if they hate my guts, in the end, they will still cherish the child, they will love it,” She had said, already distancing herself emotionally from her own unborn child.

 She had not asked him what would be of the baby, she had only reminded him the last time they had talked to keep his promise. And he had. As usual.

He doubted Mary would care if she knew that he had made plans during her pregnancy so that when time came the baby would be his. His wife had not been happy about the subterfuges, and he seldom left his personal and business life clash. Abby, however, had taken things in stride and when their baby girl had been finally brought home she had fallen in love with her.

She was in the garden, now: her long brown hair pulled in a bun, her gaze, those big, brown eyes that had made him want her since the very first time they had met was completely focused on the baby.

“Shall we get back to work?” His assistant asked.

He turned; the dark-haired man in front of him was smiling, he too had been looking outside the window, he had gotten quite fond of his baby girl since he had brought her home.

“Absolutely.” He said, smiling at the man.

Mary had been the closest thing he had had to a partner in his new endeavours, but Michael Caldwell and he had been business partners since their early twenties when the man had just left England with a degree in Business and an empty wallet.

He had placed a lot of trust in the man and he had not disappointed him.

The day Mary Morstan died he had finalised contracts which made him very rich and even more powerful. It was a delicate balance to try and still fly below the radar and juggle all that power and with Mary dead, he had had to rely more on Michael.

“Update on London?” He asked.

“They’re following the money, but Ms Morstan knew how to hide her tracks.” The man replied, “I have been informed that Mr Holmes has set up a task force.”

He smiled, he couldn’t help it.

“And when was it?” He asked.

“A few months ago, my contact only became aware of the fact last night, however,” Michael replied. He noticed that he cast a glance at the window, was he trying to spot Abby? He let that thought slide. He didn’t care about that. Michael was not stupid enough to do more than fantasize.  

“El,” The man said, “there is a message for you on John Watson’s blog. It has been updated an hour ago.”

He cocked an eyebrow at his assistant’s words. He gestured at him to hand him the tablet and the man complied.

 

_I was told, repeatedly, that you always keep your promises. You made one to me._

_I am waiting._

_-SH_

Right. He had promised Sherlock Holmes that he would give him one clue. He would keep his promise, of course, but it was still too soon.

“Speaking of my contact – “Michael trailed.

He handed him the tablet, silently prompting him to go on. Michael was not scared of him; they had known each other for far too long, but he was not stupid either. He respected him and he had to grudgingly admit that it was mutual.

“What about him?” He asked.

“Her. It’s a woman.” The man said, “It’s complicated, but she was the one who gave us the information about the Senator last month.”

“Define complicated.” He said, but he already had his suspicions.

“She is the woman who snooped about Ms. Morstan in Chicago. She claims she has a score to settle with Mycroft Holmes.” Michael said.

“Do you believe her?” He asked. Michael was a good judge of character and he wouldn’t have spoken to the woman if he thought she could not be trusted.

“Of course not, but she could be useful,” Michael replied.

“Set up a meeting.” He said.

“El – what about Sherlock Holmes’ message?” Micahel asked.

“Later – oh, by the way, did you think about our offer?” He asked.

The man’s green eyes lit up with fondness and he nodded, “I would be honoured to be her godfather.”

“You deserve it: you brought her home and Abby loves the name you chose for her.” He said.

She did, she thought it was appropriate. She did not know their daughter’s origins, but Renee, was an apt name for a girl born twice.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Five months after Mary’s death**

The woman had chosen the place where to meet; he had conceded it because she was the one who was risking her own life.

And of course, she would have chosen a yacht, in the middle of nowhere, a yacht which, he was sure, he would have to give to her by the end of their meeting.

Irene Adler was an enigma: sentiment, keen intellect, rationality and passion all came in a beautiful woman who knew what people liked and was not afraid to use it.

She had been a good adversary when she had had Jim Moriarty’s help, but she had also risked the safety and the good life she had built for herself in America (much like he had imagined in his make-believe scenario for Sherlock) to help his brother.

She had had her first meeting with the American man and she had survived.

She was smiling, wearing white and sunglasses. He knew that they were not being spied on, but he had no doubts Ms. Adler had taken her precautions as well. She was – useful and resourceful.

“Mr. Holmes. We finally meet.” She said as she boarded the Yacht.

“This will be the first and only time we meet each other, Miss. Adler.” Mycroft replied coolly.

“Indeed.” She replied. If she was worried, she was exceptionally good at hiding it.

“You did meet the American man.” Mycroft said.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. The first rule they have is no names. I deal with his assistant, mostly: British, about fifty, dark hair, green eyes, I only met him twice and I had to use all my resources to get noticed.”

“But you did succeed.” Mycroft said.

“I got noticed.” Ms. Adler replied, “I did not _see_ the American man, I don’t even know his name, I’m being considered for a job, however.”

She liked what she was doing, it was transparent. She had probably missed the chance to misbehave, as Sherlock had told him she considered her activities.

The question was: would she play fair? Would she double-cross him?

Ms. Adler smirked, “Mr. Holmes I accepted your offer, but I would like to make an amendement to our deal.”

“I told you that the terms were not negotiable.” Mycroft replied.

“Reconsider,” She said, “it’s a tiny adjustment. Nothing that will dent or put Britain in danger, I promise.”

He nodded, prompting her to make her request.

“I’ll get to keep everything I gain from this and I will come back home, after, with your protection.” She took a step toward him, “Sherlock will not be on your side this time from what I hear.”

She still had some contacts, evidently.

“When you climb the first steps of the ladder I will reconsider our agreement. I give you my word.”

Ms. Adler took off her sunglasses, and there he could finally see that the game she had started was worrying her, there was still something she wasn’t telling him.

“What else are you not telling me, Ms. Adler?” He asked.

“He is paranoid about not being discovered, in the long run that could become an advantage. My guess is that he has a legitimate, profitable business.”

“In Pharmaceutics, we have already theorised that,” Mycroft said.

“No, it is probably a law firm. Every half decent criminal knows how to get drugs, even rare ones.” Ms. Adler replied.

“Anything else?” He asked.

“He is dangerous: he is not Jim Moriarty, you cannot get access to him, no one can. I had to sacrifice a friend to be noticed.”

Right, the recent sex scandal involving a senator. He had read about that and the way it had unfolded had looked disconcertingly familiar.

“You said you are being considered for a job – did he tell you anything about it?” He asked.

“I would have told you if he had.” She replied.

“Why did you accept my offer, Ms. Adler?” He asked. He declined her offer to sit and have a drink, they were standing over the sea, in the middle of nowhere and he needed to know how much he could rely on that woman, how much of a gamble he had taken.

“Money. What else?” She replied, but she was lying. She was good, he remembered that, but years had mellowed her or, perhaps, he was just paying more attention.

“What else, indeed.” He said.

“Your brother saved my life, Mr. Holmes and he gifted me with a new one.” She said.

Not good enough. There had to be more. She had repaid her debt when she had helped uncovering part of Mary’s past. Sherlock himself would have considered them even, he was sure.

 “I’m afraid – “He trailed.,

“That it will have to suffice.” Irene softly interrupted him, “double crossing a powerful criminal and the British government would be suicidal, and I am anything but. I am not Mary Morstan.”

“You are aware, of course, that I will not allow anything to happen to my brother, aren’t you?”

“I am counting on it, Mr. Holmes.” She replied, “I would say that your brother has paid enough for your incompetence, wouldn’t you agree?”

That was the heart speaking, the woman who lost everything because she had let it overrule her head.

He nodded.

“I accepted your offer because Sherlock asked me to. He knew you would contact me when he asked for my help. When I say he gifted me with a new life I mean it, Mr. Holmes: he gave me a new identity, money and contacts to start over. He protected me from you and he didn’t have to.”

His brother: the dragon slayer, the pirate, the consulting detective, the friend.

He had many enemies, but he had not realised how many friends he had made through the years, the loyalty of how many people he had gained until a psychopath kidnapped him, thus starting the chain of events that had brought him there.

“I’ll reconsider part of our deal.” Mycroft said.

She nodded, “I like this yacht. Alas, I am afraid it would be too conspicuous given the circumstances. Would you mind adding it to our deal?”

He smiled.

They shook hands, her skin was soft and she was using a very expensive perfume.

“I’ll be in touch.” She said, “I think I know where to start to make a dent.”

He did not ask, that would mean playing fair and Irene Adler would not play fair.

 He was looking forward to it.

 

* * *

 

 

**Six Months after Mary’s death**

 

All the tests had come back negative: he was not HIV positive; there had been a delay in his exams due to his stay at the hospital six months before, but he had the results in his pocket. He had texted John, who was with William interrogating one of the men apprehended in Mary’s house.

Life was – going on, he supposed.

Part of his life was, twice at week, sitting on that brown chair and talk to a psychiatrist, and it was marginally better than he had expected.

David Hood had come to his hospital room, once – after Herman Bennett had tortured and raped him (he could say the words aloud, now. Both John and him had stopped tip-toeing around them) and he had lashed out at him. He did not remember what he had said, but Doctor Hood didn’t seem to mind.

He was shorter than him, he was older than John, with grey in his temples, shadow under his eyes and glasses he forgot everywhere.

He was also patient and not saccharine.

“When is the surgery scheduled?” He asked, breaking his train of thoughts and he realised he had not talked for a few minutes.

Doctor Hood didn’t mind the silence. They had spent one of their first sessions in complete silence, until he had said that he hated feeling so weak.

That had been the beginning.

“End of the month. I am not ecstatic at the idea of going back to the hospital, but you know what I think of those scars.” He replied.

“And you know what _I_ think of them.” Doctor Hood said. According to the doctor, those scars represented the eight hours with Herman Bennett, the physical, undeniable proof of what had taken place in that soundproof room. When he had objected to that, Doctor Hood had asked why those were the only scars he wanted removed.

He had given some excuse, but on further thinking he had had to agree with him. Nonetheless, he wanted them gone. He wanted Moriarty’s name deleted from his skin.

“Yes, I do – “ He said.

Speaking about his feelings and innermost thoughts was still like pulling teeth for him, and for the first few weeks after he started talking to Doctor Hood he had felt exhausted, after. Things had gotten better, however.

“How are your dreams?” Doctor Hood asked.

“I haven’t had a single nightmare so far this week.” He said and it was the truth. He still had nightmares, he still woke up and had to retch in the bathroom or spoke Serbian or saw Mary kill John, but either his mind was protecting him (which would be unprecedented) or the nightmares were diminishing. He was sure it was the latter. 

“Good.” Doctor Hood said, “Do you still dream Catherine?”

He blinked. That was a sore subject, one Doctor Hood didn’t often broach, but when he did he always said the truth.

“Almost every night, but they are not nightmares.” He replied.

And as always, Doctor Hood asked if he wanted to talk about those dreams and he declined.

It was – too personal, which was ludicrous to even think about, considering the things he had said to the man.

“Maybe next time.” He added.

Doctor Hood smiled and said, “Yeah, that would be good.”

Was it progress? He didn’t remember ever telling him that.

“My tests results came back negative.” He said, changing the subject.

“I’m glad to hear that, Sherlock.” Doctor Hood said and he was sincere. He was a good man, he had no reason to lie.

“I am – relieved. It’s odd because I didn’t think I was worried, I refused to think about the possibility of being infected.” He said. 

“It’s understandable.” Doctor Hood said.

He shook his head, “No. I knew, rationally, that I was not infected, the autopsy on Mr. Bennett showed that he was clean…” His mouth twitched, he swallowed and added, “Nevertheless, I was relieved when I read the results.”

“Why?” Doctor Hood asked.

He hated when he did that. Couldn’t they skip that part of therapy? Why didn’t he tell him directly what he already knew he meant to say? Why couldn't he just get to the point?

“Because it means it’s over.” Sherlock replied.

Was it? Truly? Could he put that story behind and live his life? John was doing everything he could not to let Mary win, he was trying as well – but John had not been the cause of what had happened. Neither was he, his mind constantly reminded him,  but it was something his intellect and heart would never agree on, apparently.

“And yet you still address him as Mr. Bennett.” Doctor Hood said.

“How am I supposed to call him: _Herman_? We were not friends or associates! I know you think I do that to distance myself from what happened, John thinks so as well. He was shocked when he heard Mary say his name, I could see it – he was furious. “ He stopped, and it took him a moment to realise that he had clenched his hands into fists and his tone had become scathing. 

“Then why do you call him Mr. Bennett?” The man asked, he had noticed his body language, but his voice was still soothing, he did not point out that he had been an arsehole. He just asked his question. 

He tilted his head on a side, “It was his name, wasn’t it? It’s a fact,” He said, “Make no mistake, Doctor Hood: I hate him and I hate what he did to me, but discussing about the way I address him, it’s semantics at this point.”

Doctor Hood nodded; the man had a weird way of either being like a dog with a bone or let things slide completely. He could never be sure which strategy he would adopt.

He chose to let it go, that time.

“After I read the results I thought about – what happened before we went to that room.” Sherlock said.

It had been over seven months and he still had no idea why he had not reacted.

“And?” Doctor Hood prompted him.

“As you are aware I used to have black outs, but I do remember following him, I do remember being in the car, then walking with him, getting into the house, walking down the stairs. My memory of that day is spotless.” He said.

“Is it?” Doctor Hood asked.

He blinked, “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you were not in a good state of mind to begin with: you were overwhelmed and you said it yourself: you had blackouts.” The man said. He liked that he did not walk on eggshells with him. But he did not like what he was implying.

“Are you suggesting that I made up memories of those moments? I saw the video of me climbing down those stairs, it matches my memories.” He said. And he didn’t care if his tone was harsh, that time.Yes, he was painfully aware of how bad things had been at the time for him, but h He loathed the idea of his mind not working properly to that degree. 

“All I am saying is that you saw a video – but what do you associate to those memories?” Doctor Hood asked.

“Nothing. I was indifferent, I was –“ He paused. It wasn’t hard to go back to that day, he had done so countless times, but it never failed to bring forth the feeling of being disconnected from the events. And yet, he remembered not going to his mind palace, he remembered the feeling of his feet touching the wood of the stairs, he remembered the smells.

“Perhaps, I might have fabricated part of those memories, it’s my job to put the pieces of the puzzle in order.” He said, but even Lestrade would spot that lie. 

“What made you decide to be a detective?” Doctor Hood asked.

He had dropped the subject again, but he knew they would talk again about that subject before the session was over. 

“Consulting detective - and nothing made me– solving crimes  gave me a high and it was –“

_You are on the side of the angels._

“It was better than getting high on cocaine.” He said, eventually and he knew that doctor Hood had not believed a word he had said. 

“Did you hear from Victor Trevor?” Doctor Hood asked, putting aside that subject too, for which he was grateful.

“Yes. Yes, I did. He is back in California, he is getting married to his long time lover.” He said. It had been a polite, almost warm conversation in tone. There had been no promises to hear from each other again, but it had been good or, at least, better than his visit to the hospital.

“How did it make you feel?” The doctor asked.

“Good. He is happy and he finally doesn’t have to hide whom he is.” He replied. It was the truth. Victor had been his first love, he had made many mistakes with him, but so had he. He was sorry that he had paid the price for Mary’s vendetta, but that man was his past. He was genuinely happy  for him. 

“One more question about Mr. Bennett, if you don’t mind.” Doctor Hood asked.

“Would it make a difference if I truly did?” He quipped.

“You wouldn’t be here, I suppose.” The man said with a smile.

“Fair enough.” Sherlock replied.

“Does it really matter whether you determine why you did not react that day?” He asked.

Did it matter?

“Let me rephrase: you have been back solving cases for months, haven’t you?” The man asked.

He nodded. He had: and it was good, it was fun – it was John and him dashing about, solving cases, giggling and getting high on adrenaline and then crashing in their bed, at night, and it was what he had dreamed while he was away.

“I have.” He answered eventually.

“And there have been no black outs.” Doctor Hood stated.

“No – it’s been months. I used to blink and a moment later, hours had passed, but not any longer.” Sherlock replied.

“So, let me ask again: does it matter? Or are you trying to find a way to  blame yourself for what happened?” The doctor asked. 

He rolled his eyes. They had been over that particular issue over and over: apparently, not blaming himself was to be his priority.

“The point is, Doctor Hood, that it is my fault. Not the kidnapping, or the fact that Mr. Bennett was obsessed with me, and to quote Mary that: ' he truly wanted to fuck me in Moriarty’s honor.'” He said, and he was satisfied because his voice was even, he was in control: body and mind. 

 Doctor Hood cocked an eyebrow at his words, it was possibly the first time he heard him curse, he ignored him and continued, “It is not my fault that I was assaulted and tortured, but the rest? I caused everything. It is my fault. All of it.”

Neither of them spoke after that and he was starting to think that their session would end like that, that the minutes would tick until it was time to go, but Doctor Hood said, eventually, “Then it means you will have to learn how to forgive yourself.”

His lips curled in a smiled at those words, “That is why I am here.”

He shook his head. He still had a long way to go, he wondered whether Doctor Hood had any idea of what a Herculean task he had undertaken because the objective fact was that he had killed Mary’s husband, he had been used as scapegoat and an excuse to weave a new net, to build a new criminal empire and many people had suffered because of that.

“John and I had sex last night.” He blurted out, when the silence in the room was starting to feel too thick, “I thought you should know.”

Doctor Hood looked puzzled for a moment, he should be used to the way he blurted out random personal things during their sessions.

He had had the first session the day after he had first told John that he loved him.

“Penetrative sex.” He specified. And God, why couldn’t he just shut up?

Doctor Hood nodded, “And -?”

“It was –“ He trailed.

Fantastic, Earthshaterring, tender, fun, awkward. Yes. God, yes – all of that and more. It had been John and him, and they had laughed, breathed in synch, tasted each other’s lips, felt each other’s scars, and they had breathed each other’s air, and they had been lovers for months, really, but the previous night had been a series of firsts for them anyway.

“It was – John and I together, it was perfect.” He said.

“No panic attacks, no flashbacks?” Doctor Hood asked.

“Nope. John feared that, but he is overprotective.” Sherlock said.

“Said the man who faked his suicide for him.” Doctor Hood mumbled under his breath.

He smiled. He liked that the man didn’t take any bullshit from him. It had made him feel exposed, at first, until he realised that it was the point.

“We should talk about your brother, Sherlock.” The man said.

He sighed. He had been surprised when Mycroft had not kidnapped his therapist to either know what his intentions were or to bribe him into revealing the contents of their sessions. He had told Doctor Hood about what had happened and how he hadn’t talked to his brother since the day he had allowed John to be taken and the man tried to broach the subject, about once per session.

“Please, don’t.” He said.

Doctor Hood shook his head, he had pushed in the past, to the point that they had touched upon the subject of the other one, of part of their childhood and how he blamed him for things he was not completely responsible for.

“May I just remind you that he too lost a sibling and that he had to live with the consequences of his choice?” He asked.

“You may – but he still should have told me about the text. Perhaps, we might have done something before Mary poisoned herself and shipped Catherine God knows where.” He snapped.

The alarm rang. It was an old-fashioned alarm, which for some reason he found funny. It was in such a stark contrast with the elegant furniture in the office.

Doctor Hood shrugged his shoulders and said, “I suppose we’ll continue this discussion on Monday.”

He was still looking at the alarm clock: it was quite old, the glass was chipped, the metal had some scratch marks, it was the sort of item one would have found on an adolescent’s nighttable in the late eighties.

“It was my sister’s.” Doctor Hood said, and Sherlock looked at him.

John had told him about what he had said at the hospital – he truly had deleted it – and also about the conversation they had had in the canteen. He too was seeing a therapist, and his nightmares were slowly fading. He might not remember what he had said in the hospital, but he had deduced things about the man time and again.

“I’m taking your case.” Sherlock said getting up from his chair.

Doctor Hood did the same, shaking his head in confusion, “Which case?”

“Your sister’s” He said, “I will find who killed her and why.”

Doctor Hood blinked, and when he shook his hand he saw that he had to swallow before saying good bye. 

He was outside the building when his mobile vibrated and he knew, without a doubt what the attachment to the text he had got was, even before he opened it.

It was Catherine: blonde haired, blue eyed, dressed in pink, smiling. Her resemblance to John was breathtaking. 

"I always keep my promises." was the only thing the text said. 

And he realised that he had stopped flinching, he had stopped falling.

He had landed. And the game was on. 

 

\- The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I can’t believe I finished this. It took me forever, and I apologise for the sporadic updates, for any grammar mistake you might find.  
> It was supposed to be just a short piece, but before I knew it the whole story was in my head and it wouldn’t leave me alone.  
> Yes, I know it’s an open ended story, and I do have some ideas about a follow up for the story (I have had more than a year to think about it).  
> I want to thank you all the people who read the story, who stuck until the end and who left kudos, bookmarked it or left comments.  
> I want to thank my best friend for bearing with me while I was in the middle of rewriting for the millionth time the last chapter and for her constant support.  
> I decided to name John’s daughter Catherine because …. Rosamund Mary? Really? *facepalms*  
> Any similarity to season 4, is not intentional. The last scene of the epilogue was actually one of the first I thought about, back in March 2015, because as soon as I had the story I needed the ending – and that was what I decided it would be.


End file.
